FLORENCE'AND 
IRVIN-5HUPPJR 


Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow  — 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po.  —  p. 


THE 


POEMS    AND    PLAYS 


OF 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 


WITH  THE  ADDITION  OF 


/v 

3W 

THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD, 
MEMOIR,    ETC 


$0rtraft  anlj  ©rfgfnal  IHuatrat^n* 


NEW  YORK 
WORTHINGTON  CO.,  747  BROADWAY 


CONTENTS. 


MEMOIR       «,        ^        ...        _        ^       ^.        „.  f*°J 

POEMS. 

THE  TRAVELLER  :  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society  ...         ...        _        „  i 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.     First  printed  in  1769. «        «.        w  16 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Clown's  Reply.     1753 .....__        ...  30 

Stanzas  on  the  Taking  of  Quebec.     1759     30 

A  Prologue  written  and  spoken  by  the  Poet  Laberius,  a  Roman  knight, 

whom  Csesar  forced  upon  the  stage.     Preserved  by  Macrobius.     1759  31 

The  Double  Transformation.     A  Tale.     1765         32 

A  New  Simile  in  the  manner  of  Swift.     1765          M         35 

Description' of  an  Author's  Bedchamber        37 

The  Gift     To  Iris,  in  Bow  Street,  Covent  Garden.     Imitated  from  the 

French        «..„...         M        _        ~.         ...  38 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell           ..._.„_        38 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon    ......         ,~         .........         .~  39 

THE  HERMIT;  a  Ballad.     1765...        ...        ...        _        39 

THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON  ;  a  Poetical  Epistle  to  Lord  Clare. 

I76S           45 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog.     From  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  "         «.         49 

EPILOGUES  AND  PROLOGUES. 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  "The  Sisters" 50 

Epilogue  to  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,*    Spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  • 

MissCatley            ~.         ...  5? 

An  Epilogue.     Intended  for  Mrs.  Bulkley 55 

Prologue  to  "Zobeide."      A  Tragedy.     Written  by  Joseph  Cradock  ; 

acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden,  1772      _        _        _  56 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes,  in  the  character  of  Harlequin,  at  his 

Benefit        «.        57 

The  Logicians  Refuted.     In  imitation  of  Dean  Swift        59 

An  Elegy  on  the  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize        61 

On  a  Beautiful  Youth  Struck  Blind  by  Lightning.     Imitated  from  the 

Spanish       62 

On  a  Beautiful  Youth  Struck  Blind  by  Lightning    ...        «.        ^.         ...  62 

A  Sonnet           ...        62 

Song  from  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."    On  Woman        63 

Song.  Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  but  omitted  because  the  actress  who  played  Miss  Hard- 
castle  did  not  sing 63 

RETALIATION.     Printed  in  1774,  after  the  author's  death      63 

Postscript           ...         69 

Burlesque  Elegy  on  a  Right  Honourable  Person.     From  the  "  Citizen  of 

the  World"            70 

On  the  Death  of  the  Right  Honourable 70 

Answer  to  an  Invitation  to  Dinner.     This  is  a  Poem  !   this  is  a  copy  of 

Verses         71 

Ansv  er  to  an  Invitation  to  Pass  the  Christmas  at  Barton 73 

On  Seeing  a  Lady  Perform  in  a  certain  character    ...         75 

Lines  attributed  to  Goldsmith.     These  Lines  appeared   in  the  Morning 

Advertiser  of  April  3rd,  1800        75 

Birds.     From  the  Latin  Lines  of  Addison  (Spectator,  412)  ...         ...         ...  76 

Translation  of  a  South  American  Ode  ~.        ...        ...         ~.         ...76 

From  Scarron „,         m         M         ...         ^        ...  77 

From  the  Latin  of  Vida           ...         _        ...         77 

THRENODIA  AUGUST ALIS.  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  her  late 
Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales.  Spoken  and  Sung 
in  the  Great  Room  in  Soho  Square,  Thursday,  the  2Oth  of  February, 

1772            ~.        —        ...        .~        —        77 

AN  ORATORIO.    1720     MM.MM.M.M.M.86 


PLAYS. 

THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.     A  Comedy     _ 98 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER ;  or,  The  Mistake!  of  a  Night     A 

Comedy      ...        ^        _  .      „»        «.        ...         ...  164 


MEMOIR  OE  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


|  LIVER  GOLDSMITH,  — born  November  29, 
1728,  at  Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Ferney,  county 
Longford,  Ireland, — was  the  second  son  of  the 
Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  and  Annie,  daughter  oi 
the  Rev.  Oliver  Jones,  master  of  the  diocesan  school  at 
Elphin.  Oliver's  parents  resided  for  some  time  after  their 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Goldsmith's  uncle,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green, 
at  that  time  Rector  of  Kilkenny-West  At  his  death, 
Charles*  Goldsmith  succeeded  him  in  his  benefice.  The 
poor  clergyman  hap*  five  children,  and  having  taxed 
his  slender  means  very  heavily,  in  order  to  bestow  a 
classical  education  on  his  eldest  son,  Henry  (whom  he 
intended  for  the  church),  he  was  unable  to  bestow  the 
same  amount  of  cultivation  on  the  genius  of  his  gifted 
second  son ;  and  Oliver  —  destined  to  earn  his  future 
livelihood  in  a  merchant's  office  —  was  accordingly  sent 
to  a  kind  of  hedge  school  in  the  parish,  where  he  was 
taught  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  by  the  village 
schoolmaster ;  an  old  soldier  who  had  been  quarter-master 
in  the  army  in  Queen  Anne's  days,  and  had  fought  in 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Spain  during  the  wars  of  the  Spanish  Succession,  under 
the  chivalrous  and  romantic  Earl  of  Peterborough.  Often, 
when  lessons  were  over,  this  singular  pedagogue  enter- 
tained his  young  pupils  with  stories  of  those  days  of  wild 
adventure  and  heroic  daring.  Oliver's  vivid  imagination 
kindled  at  these  recitals;  and  the  love  of  adventure  and 
excitement  thus  instilled  into  his  childish  mind  tinged  all 
his  after  life.  Doubtless,  pleasant  memories  of  his  first 
teacher  inspired  the  charmingly  playful  description  of  the 
schoolmaster  in  the  "  Deserted  Village." 

At  the  age  of  seven  or  eight  years,  Oliver  attempted 
to  write  poetry,  and  would  scribble  verses  which  he  after- 
wards burnt ;  but  his  mother  detected  in  them  the  germ  of 
his  future  powers,  and  pleaded  hard  that  he  might  receive 
better  instruction.  He  was  therefore  placed  under  the 
care  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Griffin,  of  Elphin,  as  a  daily 
pupil,  residing  at  the  same  time  at  the  house  of  his 
ancle,  John  Goldsmith,  of  Ballyoughton,  near  that  town. 
An  incident  occurred  at  this  time  which  changed  the 
future  career  of  the  young  genius.  Mr.  Goldsmith  was 
entertaining  a  juvenile  party  at  his  house,  and  Oliver 
•vas  desired  to  dance  a  hornpipe;  a  youth  playing  the 
violin  for  his  performance.  The  poor  child  had  only 
just  recovered  from  the  small-pox,  with  which  he  was 
nuch  marked,  and  his  figure  was  comically  short  and 
thick.  The  musician  compared  him  to  ^Esop  dancing,  and 
pleased  with  the  comparison,  harped  on  it,  till  Oliver 
suddenly  stopped  short  in  the  dance  and  retorted  :— 

"  Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying; 
'See  iEsop  dancing  and  his  monkey  playing." 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  «ii 

His  uncles  —  Messrs.  Contarine  and  Green — who  were 
present,  were  so  much  struck  with  the  precocious  wit  of 
the  boy  that  they  induced  his  father  to  alter  his  intentions 
regarding  him,  offering  to  bear  the  greater  portion  of  his 
expenses,  if  Mr.  Goldsmith  would  let  him  study  for  one  of 
the  learned  professions,  instead  of  putting  him  into  an  office. 
Oliver  was  in  consequence  removed  to  the  school  of  Athlone, 
where  he  remained  for  two  years  under  the  care  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Campbell.  On  this  gentleman  resigning  the  master- 
ship from  ill  health,  the  boy  was  removed  to  the  Rev. 
Patrick  Hughes's  school  at  Edgeworthstown,  county 
Longford ;  and  of  this  tutor's  learning  and  goodness 
he  often  spoke  in  after  years  with  respect  and  grati- 
tude. 

In  June,  1744,  Oliver  was  sent  to  Dublin,  and  entered 
Trinity  College  as  a  Sizar.  His  tutor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilder, 
one  of  the  Fellows,  was  a  man  of  savage  temper  and  a 
great  disciplinarian.  The  thoughtless,  gay,  and  social  lad 
of  eighteen  inspired  this  man  with  a  dislike  which  he  mani- 
fested on  every  occasion.  One  evening,  Goldsmith  had 
invited  some  of  his  young  acquaintances  of  both  sexes  to 
a  supper  and  dance  in  his  room.  The  tutor  entered  in  the 
midst  of  this  out-of-place  revelry,  and  not  only  addressed 
the  harshest  invectives  to  the  thoughtless  Sizar,  but 
actually  inflicted  corporal  punishment  on  him  in  his  friends' 
presence.  The  sensitive  poet  was  wounded  to  the  soul. 
After  so  terrible  a  disgrace,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  meet 
his  acquaintances  again,  and  he  d**" 
Dublin  and  seek  his  fortune  in 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


He  disposed  of  his  books  and  left  the  College,  but 
lingered  in  Dublin  till  he  had  only  a  shilling  left  in  his 
pocket.  On  this  shilling  he  subsisted  (he  affirmed  himself), 
for  three  days,  and  then  had  to  sell  great  part  of  the 
clothes  he  wore.  So  terrible  was  the  want  to  which  he  was 
at  length  reduced  that  for  four  and  twenty  hours  he  had 
no  food,  and  thought  a  handful  of  grey  peas  which  a  giri 
gave  him  at  a  wake,  a  delicious  repast 

His  spirit  lowered  by  suffering,  the  thoughts  of  the 
young  man — prodigal  like — reverted  to  his  home  from 
which  he  was  not  far  distant.  He  managed  to  send  for 
his  brother  Henry,  who  at  once  obeyed  the  summons  ; 
comforted,  fed  and  clothed  him,  and  finally  took  hit? 
back  to  College,  where  he  effected  a  hollow  reconciliation 
between  Oliver  and  his  tutor.  The  dissensions  between 
Mr.  Wilder  and  young  Goldsmith  had  an  unfortunate 
effect  on  the  studies  of  the  pupil.  He  was  not,  in  conse- 
quence, admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  till 
February,  1/49, — two  years  after  the  regular  time.  Never- 
theless, Goldsmith  showed  no  lack  of  ability,  according  to 
the  testimony  of  his  celebrated  fellow  student,  Edmund 
Burke.  Archdeacon  Kearing — Senior  Fellow  of  Trinity 
College — asserted  that  Goldsmith  obtained  a  premium  at 
a  Christmas  examination  for  being  first  in  literary  merit 
He  was  also  elected  an  exhibitioner  on  the  foundation 
of  Erasmus  Smyth,  June  15,  1747. 

In  1750,  soon  after  he  had  taken  his  degree,  his  excel- 
lent father  died.  Goldsmith  preserved  a  tender  recollection 
of  this  good  man,  and  has  immortalised  his  virtues  in  the 

^  *  • 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


exquisite  portrait  of  the  "  Village  Preacher"  in  the  "  Deserted 
Village."  The  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith  was  also  the  origi- 
nal of  the  "  Man  in  Black,"  in  the  "  Citizen  of  the 
World."  Mr.  Contarine  endeavoured  to  supply  the  loss  of 
Oliver's  father,  and  urged  him  to  take  holy  orders.  But 
the  poet  had  no  vocation  for  the  church,  and  probably 
felt  but  little  regret  when  Dr.  Synge,  Bishop  of  Elphin, 
refused  to  ordain  him,  ostensibly  on  account  of  his  youth 
—probably  because  he  found  him  ignorant  of  theology, 
or  had  heard  of  his  freaks  at  College.  His  uncle  then 
procured  him  a  situation  as  tutor  in  a  private  family,  where 
he  continued  a  year,  but  having  by  that  time  saved  thirty 
pounds  and  become  weary  of  the  monotonous  thraldom  of 
his  position,  he  purchased  a  good  horse  and  suddenly  left 
the  country.  At  the  end  of  six  weeks,  however,  he  reappeared 
at  his  mother's  house,  mounted  on  a  miserable  little  horse, 
which  he  called  Fiddleback.  Mrs.  Goldsmith  was  greatly 
displeased  with  her  erratic  son,  but  his  brothers  and  sisters 
interfered  in  his  behalf,  and  reconciled  her  to  him.  He 
then  told  his  story.  He  had  gone  to  Cork,  sold  his  horse, 
and  taken  his  passage  to  America  ;  but  the  winds  proving 
contrary  for  three  weeks,  he  had  started  on  an  excursion 
into  the  country.  That  very  same  day  the  wind  veered 
round  to  fair,  and  the  ship  sailed  without  him.  He 
remained  at  Cork  till  he  had  only  £2  $s.  6d.  left,  then  he 
bought  Fiddleback  for  forty  shillings  and  started  for  his 
home — a  journey  of  150  miles — with  only  55.  6d.  in  his 
pocket.  On  the  road  not  far  from  Cork,  resided  a  College 
friend  of  his,  who  had  often  urged  Oliver  to  visit  him  and 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


spend  a  summer  at  his  house.  Thither,  therefore,  Gold- 
smith, confiding  in  the  young  man's  former  professions, 
resolved  to  proceed,  hoping  that  he  should  be  able  to 
borrow  enough  money  to  supply  the  wants  of  himself  and 
his  steed  on  their  homeward  journey.  Feeling  certain  of 
this  aid,  he  gave  away  half  his  stock  of  money  to  a  poor 
woman  whom  he  met  on  his  road ;  touched  by  her  story 
of  "eight  starving  children  and  a  husband  in  jail  for  rent." 
At  last  the  house  of  his  acquaintance  appeared  in  sight 
and  cheered  the  traveller's  spirits.  He  found  the  master  of  it 
at  home,  just  recovering  from  a  severe  illness.  He  received 
Oliver  with  much  warmth,  and  inquired  what  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance had  brought  him  to  that  place.  The  simple,  warm- 
hearted youth  at  once  told  his  tale  ;  but  as  he  proceeded 
his  host's  countenance  and  manner  changed.  He  sighed 
deeply  and  walked  about  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands  in 
solemn  silence,  till  Oliver  paused  ;  when  he  said  that  he  re- 
gretted he  had  no  means  of  entertaining  visitors,  as  having 
been  recently  very  ill,  he  lived  on  slops  and  a  milk  diet,  but 
that  if  Mr.  Goldsmith  pleased  to  partake  of  invalid  fare  he 
should  be  welcome.  The  traveller,  who  had  fasted  the 
whole  day,  had  little  choice.  By  and  by  an  old  woman 
appeared  and  spread  the  table,  on  which  she  placed  a  bowl 
of  sago  for  her  master,  and  a  porringer  of  sour  milk  and  a 
piece  of  brown  bread  for  his  guest.  The  next  day  the 
half-starved  Oliver  proffered  his  request  for  the  loan  of  a 
guinea.  He  was  answered  by  grave  counsel  to  avoid  debt 
"  Sell  your  horse,"  was  the  advice  given,  "that  will  supply 
you  with  funds,  and  1  will  furnish  you  with  a  steed  for  the 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


journey."  As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  under  the  bed  a 
stout  oaken  staff.  Goldsmith  asserted  that  he  was  about 
to  use  it  over  the  miser's  shoulders,  when  a  guest  was 
suddenly  admitted,  who  came,  like  a  good  angel,  to  his  aid. 
This  gentleman,  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  had  come 
to  invite  Oliver's  host  to  dine  with  him  on  the  morrow, 
and,  prepossessed  by  the  young  stranger's  conversation, 
extended  the  invitation  to  Goldsmith.  Oliver  at  first 
refused,  but  he  actually  needed  food,  and  was  therefore 
easily  persuaded  to  accompany  his  churlish  host  to  his 
friend's  home.  The  gentleman  perceived  that  there 
was  something  wrong  between  the  fellow  collegians,  and 
insisted  on  Goldsmith's  remaining  as  his  guest  for  a  few 
days.  When  his  friend  took  leave  Oliver  advised  him  to 
take  care  of  the  steed  he  had  kindly  offered  him,  and  not 
surfeit  his  friends  on  milk  diet. 

The  story  of  his  miserly  entertainment,  which  Goldsmith 
told  on  the  morrow  to  his  new  friend,  made  him  laugh 
heartily.  He  kept  the  poet  with  him  a  few  days,  and 
finally  lent  him  three  half  guineas  to  pay  his  travelling 
expenses.  Such  was  the  tale  which  Oliver  told  to  his 
mother  at  his  return,  concluding  by  saying,  "  and  now, 
dear  mother,  after  having  struggled  so  hard  to  come  home 
to  you,  I  wonder  you  are  not  more  glad  to  see  me  !" 

His  uncle  Contarine  again  came  to  the  aid  of  the  pro- 
digal, and  offered  to  send  him  to  study  law  at  the  Temple 
But  once  more  the  kind  intentions  of  that  good  man  were 
baffled  by  the  incorrigible  simplicity  and  thoughtlessness 
of  his  young  kinsman.  Oliver,  when  on  his  way  to  England, 


cli  MEMOIR  Of  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

met  a  sharper  in  Dublin,  who  tempted  him  to  play,  and 
speedily  relieved  him  of  the  fifty  pounds  which  good  Mr. 
Contarine  had  given  him  for  the  expenses  of  his  voyage. 
Again  he  returned  to  his  poor  mother  destitute,  and  again 
her  natural  anger  was  appeased  by  his  regrets.  Mr. 
Contarine  also  forgave  him,  and  it  was  finally  decided  by 
the  much  tried  family  that  the  beloved,  but  troublesome 
genius,  should  enter  the  medical  profession,  and,  by  the 
untiring  generosity  of  his  uncle,  he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh 
about  the  latter  end  of  1752. 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  in  the  Scottish  metropolis 
he  very  nearly  became  again  a  homeless  wanderer  without 
clothes,  through  his  singular  inattention  and  carelessness. 
He  had  his  luggage  carried  by  a  porter  to  a  lodging  which 
he  engaged,  and,  telling  the  landlady  that  he  would  be 
home  to  supper,  he  went  out  to  view  the  picturesque  city 
of  the  north,  and  wandering  about  till  dark,  suddenly  re- 
membered that  he  had  not  asked  the  name  of  the  lodging- 
house  keeper,  or  noticed  that  of  the  street  in  which  she 
lived.  To  find  her  house  appeared  impossible ;  but  while  he 
was  standing  in  anxious  perplexity,  he  chanced  to  see  the 
porter  whom  he  had  employed,  and  who  at  once  guided 
him  to  his  new  dwelling-place. 

Goldsmith  does  not  appear  to  have  studied  very  earn- 
estly at  Edinburgh ;  for  though  he  attended  the  lectures 
of  Munro  and  Cullen,  and  the  usual  classes  for  two  years, 
he  left  the  university  without  a  diploma. 

His  generous  uncle  suggested  that  he  should  go  to 
Leyden,  and  conclude  his  medical  studies  there ;  and  as 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLbSAUTtt.  aii 

this  advice  was  enforced  by  the  unpleasant  circumstance  of 
an  arrest  for  the  payment  of  a  debt  for  which  he  had  gener- 
ously become  surety,  Goldsmith — after  being  released  by 
his  college  friends,  Mr.  Maclane  and  Dr.  Sleigh — embarked 
for  Bordeaux.  A  very  singular  adventure  once  more 
occurred,  which  delayed  his  journey,  but  also  saved  his 
life.  He  gives  the  following  account  of  it  in  a  letter  to  his 
benefactor : 

"  Some  time  after  the  receipt  of  your  last,  I  embarked 
for  Bordeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ship,  called  the  '  St. 
Andrew's,'  Captain  John  Wall,  master.  The  ship  made  a 
tolerable  appearance,  and  as  another  inducement,  I  was  let 
to  know  that  six  agreeable  passengers  were  to  be  my 
company.  Well,  we  were  but  two  days  at  sea,  when  a 
storm  drove  us  into  a  city  of  England  called  Newcastle-on- 
Tyne.  We  all  went  on  shore  to  refresh  us  after  our 
«royage.  Seven  men  and  I  were  one  day  on  shore,  and  on 
\he  following  evening,  as  we  were  all  very  merry,  the  room 
doors  burst  open  ;  enters  a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers 
with  their  bayonets  fixed,  and  puts  us  all  under  the  king's 
arrest.  It  seems  my  company  were  Scotchmen  in  the 
French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  to  enlist  soldiers 
for  the  French  army.  I  endeavoured  all  I  could  to  prove 
my  innocence  ;  however,  I  remained  in  prison  with  the 
rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficulty  got  off  even  then. 
Dear  sir,  keep  this  all  a  secret,  or  at  least  say  it  was  for 
debt ;  for  if  it  were  once  known  at  the  university  I  should 
hardly  get  a  degree  But  hear  how  Providence  interposed 


***  MEMOIR  Of  OLIVER  GOLDSMlTff. 

in  my  favour.  The  ship  was  gone  on  to  Bordeaux  before 
I  got  from  prison,  and  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Garonne,  and  every  one  of  the  crew  was  drowned.  It 
happened  the  last  great  storm.  There  was  a  ship  at  that 
time  ready  for  Holland ;  and,  in  nine  days,  thank  my  God, 
I  arrived  safely  at  Rotterdam,  whence  I  travelled  by  land 
to  Leyden,  and  whence  I  now  write." 

He  resided  for  about  a  year  at  Leyden,  studying  chem- 
istry under  Gaubius,  the  favourite  pupil  of  the  celebrated 
Boerhaave,  and  anatomy  under  Albinus  ;  his  expenses  being 
paid  by  his  uncle  Contarine.  But  here  his  fatal  passion  for 
gambling  reduced  him  to  the  greatest  pecuniary  difficulties, 
from  which  he  was  released  by  the  liberality  of  his  friend, 
Dr.  Ellis,  Clerk  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  who,  also, 
lent  him  a  sum  of  money  to  enable  him  to  quit  Leyden,  and 
travel.  But,  unfortunately,  Oliver  happened  to  visit  im- 
mediately afterwards  a  garden  where  the  finest  flowers  in 
tulip-loving  Holland  were  produced.  He  remembered  how 
his  uncle  Contarine  loved  flowers,  and  in  a  sudden  glow  of 
grateful  recollection,  spent  all  his  money  on  the  purchase 
of  some  costly  roots  to  send  to  his  benefactor. 

He  was  now  without  money  or  resources,  and  determined 
therefore  to  make  a  pedestrian  tour  through  Europe.  He 
started  with  only  a  new  shirt  in  his  pocket,  and  a  German 
lute.  He  spoke  French  tolerably,  and  knew  a  little 
Italian  ;  these  languages  enabled  him  (with  the  help  of 
Latin)  to  make  himself  understood  in  most  of  the  lands 
IK  visited.  He  walked  by  day,  visiting  and  exploring 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  beautiful  South  of  France,  the  valleys  of  the  Alps, 
or  the  classic  plains  of  Italy ;  when  evening  gathered 
over  the  earth,  he  took  out  his  German  flute,  and  played 
from  memory  the  delicious  Irish  airs  which  haunted  his 
ear,  the  charm  of  which  won  for  him  ready  hospitality 
from  the  French  peasant  or  the  Flemish  boor,  at  whose 
doors  he  lingered. 

Sometimes  he  came  to  one  of  those  monastic  seats  of 
learning,  where  it  was  still  the  custom  on  certain  days, 
to  maintain  thesis  against  any  wandering  disputant ;  for 
which,  if  the  scholar-errant  acquitted  himself  ably,  he 
might  claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  foi 
the  night.  This  was  a  great  resource  for  Oliver,  who  had 
no  objection  to  an  argument  for  its  own  sake,  and  who  was 
quite  ready  to  win  money  and  needful  refreshment  by  it 
"  Thus,"  he  says,  "  I  fought  my  way  from  convent  to  con- 
vent ;  walked  from  city  to  city ;  examined  mankind  more 
nearly  ;  and,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the 
picture." 

In  this  manner  he  travelled  through  Flanders,  and  parts 
of  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland.  He  went  to  Padua, 
where  he  remained  six  months.  He  visited  also  Venice, 
Verona,  and  Florence.  Whilst  he  was  in  Italy  his  kind 
uncle  contrived  to  get  a  little  money  to  him,  and  by  this 
aid  probably  Goldsmith  was  enabled  to  resume  his  medical 
studies  at  Padua, 

But  the  death  of  that  generous  man  made  it  necessary 
for  Oliver  to  seek  some  permanent  means  of  subsist- 
ence, and  with  a  sad  heart  the  poet,  (he  had  already  begur 


kit  MEMOIR  Of  OLIVER  GOLDSMlTff. 

to  write  his  fine  poem  the  "  Traveller,")  took  his  homeward 
way,  striving  with  all  sorts  of  difficulties  till  he  had  crossed 
the  Channel,  and  at  last  reached  London,  1756.  There  he 
stood,  a  ragged,  way-worn  man,  with  but  a  few  half-pence 
in  his  pocket.  He  attempted  to  obtain  a  situation  as  usher 
in  a  school,  and  through  the  recommendation  of  Dr.  Rad- 
cliffe,  a  mild,  benevolent  man,  who  had  been  joint  tutor  with 
the  savage  Wilder  at  Trinity  College,  he  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining the  post  he  desired.  But  disgusted  at  the  drudgery 
and  mortifications  to  which  he  found  himself  exposed,  he 
soon  left  his  situation,  and  applied  to  several  apothecaries 
for  the  place  of  assistant  His  threadbare  coat,  ungainly 
figure,  and  broad  Irish  accent,  however,  stood  in  his  way, 
and  he  was  finally  compelled  to  take  the  place  of  journey- 
man-assistant in  the  laboratory  of  a  chemist,  near  Fish- 
street  Hill.  From  the  drudgery  of  this  place  he  was 
released  by  the  generous  aid  of  his  old  fellow-student,  at 
Edinburgh,  Dr.  Sleigh,  whom  he  accidentally  met  in 
London,  and  who  at  once  supplied  him  with  money.  By 
his  advice  Goldsmith  set  up  in  practice  as  a  physician  in 
Southwark  (at  Bankside),  from  whence  he  removed  to  the 
Temple.  But  Oliver  did  not  find  his  profession  a  remuner- 
ative one ;  he  had,  as  he  said,  "  an  extensive  circle  of 
patients,  but  no  fees."  Necessity  therefore  drove  him  to 
literature  as  a  pursuit 

At  this  time  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  several 
young  medical  men  whom  he  had  known  when  in  Edinburgh; 
imongst  them  was  the  son  of  a  Dr.  Milner,  a  dissenting 
minister  who  had  a  classical  school  at  Peckham,  Surrey.  Di; 


MEMOIR  OP  OLIVER  (,OLD*MITH. 


Milner  was  seriously  indisposed  shortly  after  the  renewal 
of  Goldsmith's  acquaintance  with  his  son,  and  the  latter 
asked  his  friend  to  superintend  his  academy  till  the  master 
should  be  able  to  resume  his  duties.  That  time  never 
came ;  for  Dr.  Milner's  illness  was  of  long  duration  and 
ended  in  death  ;  but  before  he  died  he  had  secured  for 
Goldsmith  a  situation  as  physician  to  one  of  the  English 
factories  on  the  Coromandel  Coast.  This  appointment 
was  considered  likely  to  produce  an  income  of  one  thou- 
sand per  annum ;  but  Goldsmith  ultimately  refused  it. 
Probably  his  lively  imagination  realized  too  vividly  the 
distant  exile  from  all  whom  he  loved,  and  he  preferred  a 
struggle  with  poverty  in  his  own  land  to  wealth  in  the  far 
East.  Moreover,  he  had,  as  he  used  to  phrase  it,  "  a  happy 
knack  at  hoping,"  and  he  was  beginning  to  find  that  he 
could  earn  money  quickly  by  his  pen. 

In  1758  he  was  engaged  by  Mr.  Griffiths,  the  publisher 
agd  proprietor  of  the  Monthly  Review,  as  a  writer  on  the  stafi 
of  that  periodical ;  for  this  work  he  received  board,  lodging 
and  a  handsome  salary.  At  the  end  of  seven  or  eight 
months  the  engagement  was  broken  off,  however ;  Gold 
smith  then  took  lodgings  in  Green  Arbour  Court,  in  the 
Old  Bailey,  where  he  completed  his  "  Present  State  of 
Literature  in  Europe,"  printed  for  Dodsley,  1759.  A  friend 
paying  him  a  visit  at  this  time,  found  him  in  a  miserably 
dirty  room,  which  contained  only  one  chair.  Goldsmith, 
yielding  it  to  his  guest,  was  compelled  to  find  a  seat  in  the 
window.  He  afterwards  removed  to  tolerably  good 
lodgings  in  Wine  Office  Court,  Fleet  Street;  there  he 


ivifi  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

wrote  his  famous  novel  the  u  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and  also 
became  acquainted  with  Samuel  Johnson,  to  whose  just 
appreciation  of  its  rare  merit  we  probably  owe  the  publi- 
cation of  that  enchanting  story.  We  give  Johnson's  own 
account  of  how  he  became  the  literary  sponsor  of  M  Dr. 
Primrose.1* 

"I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Gold- 
smith that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised 
him  to  come  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was 
drest,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his 
rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived 
that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a 
bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork 
into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to 
talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated. 
He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press, 
which  he  produced.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit , 
told  the  landlady  I  should  soon  return,  and  having  gone  to 
a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Gold- 
smith the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without 
rating  his  landlady  for  having  used  him  so  ilL"* 

But  Mr.  Newberry  had  not  much  faith  in  the  wonderful 
novel  which  was  so  great  a  contrast  to  the  popular  fictions 
of  the  day  ;  and  he  kept  the  MS.  by  him  till  the  publi- 

•  This  is  the  account  givei  by  Boswell  in  his  "Life  of  Johnsom.' 


MEMOIR  OF  OLW&R  GOLDSMITH. 


cation  of  the  "Traveller"  had  established  Goldsmith's 
literary  fame,  and  ensured  the  success  of  his  tale. 

In  the  spring  of  1763  Goldsmith  removed  to  lodgings  at 
Canonbury  House,  Islington,  and  undertook  a  great  deal 
of  literary  employment  for  Mr.  Newbeny,  for  whom  he 
corrected  and  revised  the  "  Art  of  Poetry,"  wrote  the  "  Life 
of  Beau  Nash,"  and  probably  did  much  useful  bui  now 
unknown  work.  Here  also  he  wrote  his  "  Letters  on 
English  History,  from  a  Nobleman  to  hi&  Son,"  which 
were  attributed  at  the  time  to  Lord  Lyttclton,  the  Earl 
of  Orrery,  and  other  noblemen,  and  obtained  good  success. 
His  "Survey  of  Experimental  Philosophy,"  which  was 
not  printed  till  some  years  afterwards,  was  written  at  this 
time. 

In  1765  Goldsmith  published  his  fine  poem  "The 
Traveller."  He  had  written  jvirt  of  it  whilst  he  wandered 
amongst  the  Swiss  mountaini ;  he  completed  it  at  intervals, 
.while  doing  literary  drudgery  for  his  daily  bread.  He 
conducted  for  Wilkie  a  Lady's  Magazine,  and  wrote 
some  delightful  essays  for  a  publication  called  the  "  Bee." 
For  the  "  Public  Ledger,"  he  wrote  a  series  of  letters  in  the 
character  of  a  Chinese  philosopher ;  they  were  afterwards 
collected  and  published  by  Newberry,  1762,  under  the  title 
of  the  "  Citizen  of  the  World."  This  work  proved  suffi- 
ciently profitable  to  permit  him,  in  1764,  to  ta!:e  up  his 
abode  in  the  Temple  ;  first  in  the  Library  Stan  case,  next 
in  the  King's  Bench  Walk,  and  latterly  at  2,  P-ick  Court, 
where  he  had  handsome  apartments  on  the  first  floor, 
elegantly  furnished.  He  began  at  this  time  V  v*J 


MEMOIR  OP  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


attention  to  his  dress,  wearing  the  physician's  peculiar 
costume  of  scarlet  cloak,  wig,  sword,  and  cane  ;  he  also 
engaged  an  amanuensis  to  lighten  his  literary  toil,  but  this 
last  luxury  was  speedily  dispensed  with,  for  Goldsmith  found 
that  head  and  hand  must  in  his  case  work  together.  He 
was  unable  to  dictate  a  sentence  ;  so  he  gave  his  clerk  a 
guinea  and  dismissed  him. 

In  1764  the  celebrated  Literary  Club  was  instituted,  and 
Goldsmith,  as  one  of  its  earliest  members,  became  asso- 
ciated with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  ;  Dr. 
Johnson  —  already  his  tried  and  affectionate  friend  —  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  Edmund  Burke,  Topham  Beauclerk, 
Mr.  Langton,  Mr.  Chamier,  Under  Secretary  of  State,  &c., 
&c.,  were  members  of  it.  The  club  met  for  some  years 
every  Monday  evening,  at  the  "  Turk's  Head,"  in  Gerard 
Street,  Soho  ;  had  supper,  and  sat  till  a  late  hour.  This 
society  weaned  Goldsmith  in  a  great  degree  from  the 
low  associates  towards  whom  the  privations  of  his  former 
life  had  drawn  him. 

He  was  at  this  time  possessed  by  a  desire  to  explore 
Asia  and  the  interior  of  Africa,  with  a  view  of  introducing 
the  arts  of  the  east  into  England.  He  applied  to  Lord 
Bute  for  a  salary  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  carry  out  this 
idea  ;  and  drew  up  an  essay  on  the  subject,  which  ap- 
peared in  his  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  but  his  memorial 
received  no  attention,  and  he  was  unable  to  achieve  his 
purpose. 

The  success  of  the  "Traveller,"  —  which  obtained  the 
praise  of  Johnson,  who  declared  it  to  be  'the  finest  poem 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Pope's  time,"  and  of  Fox,  who  called  it  "  one  of  the  finest 
poems  in  the  English  language,"  —  introduced  Goldsmith 
to  many  noble  and  influential  people.  Lord  Nugent 
(afterwards  Lord  Clare)  became  his  intimate  friend,  and 
introduced  him  to  Earl  Percy,  afterwards  Duke  of  North- 

• 

umberland,  who  was  then  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland.  The 
carl  invited  Goldsmith,  through  his  friend  Dr.  Percy,  to 
call  on  him.  The  simple-minded  poet  obeyed  with  natural 
pride  at  the  distinction  ;  and  being  shown  into  an  anti- 
chamber  where  he  had  to  wait  some  time,  he  amused 
himself  by  thinking  over  a  complimentary  address  with 
which  he  meant  to  greet  the  earl.  But  alas !  a  groom 
of  the  chambers  of  pompous  presence  chanced  to  enter 
first,  and  Goldsmith  bestowed  on  him  the  compliments 
destined  for  his  master !  At  that  moment  Lord  Percy 
entered  the  room,  and  the  absent  poet  perceiving  his 
blunder,  was  so  shocked  and  embarrassed  that  he  could 
scarcely  stammer  out  a  reply  to  the  earl's  courteous  greet- 
ing. Earl  Percy  (Goldsmith  afterwards  told  Sir  John 
Hawkins)  told  the  poet  that  he  had  read  the  "Traveller," 
"  and  was  much  delighted  with  it ;  that  he  was  going  as 
lord  lieutenant  to  Ireland,  and  as  he  understood  Mr.  Gold- 
smith was  a  native  of  that  country,  he  should  be  glad  to 
do  him  any  kindness  he  could."  No  thought  of  self 
crossed  the  mind  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  He  replied  that  he 
had  a  brother  there,  a  clergyman,  who  needed  help,  and 
that  he  should  be  grateful  if  Earl  Percy  would  show  to 
him  the  kindness  destined  for  himself. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  generous  request  met  with 


cdi  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


no  attention,  though  Earl  Percy  on  his  return  from  his  vice- 
royalty  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the  poet 

Goldsmith  had  the  weakness  of  priding  himself  on  pos- 
sessing grand  acquaintances,  and  was  fond  of  boasting  of  his 
intimacy  with  Earl  Percy.  An  ingenious  bailiff,  who  wished 
to  serve  a  writ  on  him,  took  advantage  of  it  to  arrest  him. 
He  wrote  to  Goldsmith  in  the  character  of  steward  to  a 
nobleman  who  had  read  his  poem,  admired  it,  and  requested 
the  pleasure  of  an  interview  at  a  certain  coffee-house.  The 
poet,  deceived  and  flattered,  obeyed  the  summons,  and 
found  himself  confronted  by  his  enemy,  the  bailiff.  The 
debt  (which  was  trifling)  was,  however,  discharged  on  the 
spot  by  Mr.  Hamilton,  printer  of  the  "Critical  Review,* 
— an  old  friend  of  Goldsmith's — and  he  was  set  free. 

In  1765  Goldsmith  published  his  beautiful  ballad  of  the 
"  Hermit,"  and  in  1768  his  firsx  play,  "  The  Good-natured 
Man,"  was  performed  at  Covent  Garden,  then  under  the 
management  of  Coleman.  The  play  was  not  as  successful 
as  from  its  extraordinary  merits  it  deserved  to  be,  but  it 
obtained,  nevertheless,  much  admiration,  and  brought  some 
profit  for  the  author.  Whilst  Goldsmith  was  engaged  on 
it  he  wrote  numerous  prefaces,  introductions,  and  histories  ; 
he  was,  indeed,  always  full  of  business  as  a  writer.  He 
wrote  and  abridged  at  this  time  the  histories  of  England 
md  Rome,  which  have  almost  up  to  the  present  day  been 
standard  school  books. 

His  exquisite  poem,  "The  Deserted  Village,"  appeared 
i  1769.  It  offers  charming  pictures  of  the  village  in 
vhich  bis  youth  had  been  passed.  The  schoolmaster, — the 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xxui 

preacher  (a  portrait  of  his  excellent  father) — the  aged 
beggar, — the  ale-house, — the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  hamlet, 
still  live  in  the  melodious  lines  of  the  poet.  The  truth  and 
tenderness  of  his  affectionate  recollections  stamp  the 
"  Deserted  Viilage  "  with  a  vitality  which  will  probably  pre- 
serve it  in  its  present  high  place  as  long  as  the  language  in 
which  it  is  written  exists. 

Goldsmith's  poems  were  composed  with  so  much  pains 
and  care,  that  it  is  said  that  scarcely  a  word  of  his  first  copy 
ever  went  to  press.  He  wrote  his  lines  very  far  apart,  and 
filled  up  the  intermediate  space  with  his  numerous  correc- 
tions. He  was  two  years  writing  the  "  Deserted  Village." 

Happily  for  his  pecuniary  circumstances,  he  wrote  prose 
both  rapidly  and  well,  and  is  said  in  the  course  of  fourteen 
years  to  have  received  upwards  of  £8000  as  the  price  of 
his  literary  labours.  In  1771  he  wrote  a  "  Life  of  Parnell," 
and  in  the  same  year,  a  "  Life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,"  and 
his  "  History  of  Greece." 

His  next  large  work  was  a  comedy,  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  which  appeared  at  Covent  Garden,  March  15, 
1773.  He  is  said  to  have  cleared  £800  by  it  One  of  his  last 
works  was  "A  History  of  the  Earth  and  of  Animated 
Nature,"  published  1774.  He  received  for  it  £850. 

But  no  money  could  enrich  the  thoughtless,  generous, 
benevolent  poet.  He  supported  two  or  three  poor  authors  ; 
he  had  several  widows  and  poor  housekeepers  constant 
pensioners  on  his  bounty.  When  his  money  was  exhausted 
he  gave  them  his  clothes,  and  sometimes  the  whole  of  his 
breakfast,  saying,  after  they  were  gone,  with  a  smile  of 


nd7  MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

satisfaction,  *  Now  let  me  suppose  that  I  have  eaten  a 
good  breakfast,  and  am  nothing  out  of  pocket"  Of 
economy  he  had  no  idea,  and  as  a  fatal  habit  of  gambling 
possessed  him,  and  his  charity  was  simply  boundless,  the 
purse  of  Fortunatus  alone  could  have  kept  him  free  from 
pecuniary  embarrassments. 

When  his  money  was  exhausted  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
hiring  a  lodging  some  miles  out  of  London,  and  writing 
incessantly,  without  taking  any  exercise,  till  his  work  was 
done.  He  would  then  carry  the  MS.  to  London,  sell  it  to 
the  booksellers,  and  with  the  price  of  it,  enter  at  once  into 
all  the  gaieties  of  London  life.  As  he  attained  popularity, 
however,  and  the  value  of  his  name  became  apparent,  the 
booksellers  were  only  too  ready  to  advance  him  money  foi 
works  to  be  hereafter  written,  and  with  these  engagements 
he  became  greatly  burdened  towards  the  beginning  of 
1774,  although  for  the  past  year's  work  he  had  received 
£1800.  This  life  of  long  intervals  of  heavy  work  without 
exercise,  and  of  reckless  dissipation,  after  it,  joined  to  his 
pecuniary  anxieties,  and  a  painful  complaint  from  which 
he  suffered,  brought  on,  in  March,  1774,  a  nervous  fever. 
He  sent  for  Mr.  Hobbs,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  take 
some  of  Dr.  James's  Powders,  from  which  he  had  once 
before,  in  a  similar  illness,  derived  great  benefit.  Mr. 
Hobbs  tried  to  persuade  him  not  to  do  so,  and  finding  his 
entreaties  fruitless,  requested  him  to  call  in  Dr.  Fordyce, 
in  whose  skill  both  had  great  confidence.  This  second 
adviser  also  objected  to  the  powders,  but  Goldsmith  per- 
sisted in  taking  them,  and  was  so  ill  on  the  following  day 


that  his  friends  summoned  Dr.  Turton  to  a  consultation. 
Dr.  Turton,  after  feeling  his  patient's  pulse,  observed,  "  Your 
pulse  is  in  greater  disorder  than  it  should  be  from  the 
degree  of  fever  which  you  have ;  is  your  mind  at  ease  ?" 
Goldsmith  answered,  "  It  is  not" 

Nothing  could  stop  the  progress  of  the  fever,  and  on  the 
4th  of  April,  1774,  the  poet,  historian,  novelist,  essayist, 
passed  away  to  his  rest ;  regretted,  not  only  by  his  literary 
associates,  but  by  numbers  of  poor  and  lowly  creatures 
who  had  never  found  his  bounty  fail  them.  Our  readers 
will  probably  remember  the  beautiful  picture  exhibited 
in  the  Royal  Academy  a  few  years  ago  of  the  scene 
in  Bolt  Court  the  morning  after  Goldsmith's  death ; 
the  weeping  poor  who  mourned  the  man  who  had  been 
every  one's  friend  but  his  own — the  gentle,  generous  Gold- 
smith. He  died  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  and  full  force  of 
his  intellect — being  only  forty-five  years  of  age  when  he 
expired. 

One  of  the  probable  causes  of  his  mental  disquietude 
became  apparent  after  his  death.  He  was  ^2000  in  debt. 
In  consequence  of  this  untoward  circumstance  his  friends 
did  not  think  it  advisable  to  give  him  a  public  funeral. 
They  determined  to  bury  him  privately  in  the  Temple,  and 
to  erect  a  marble  monument  to  his  memory  afterwards,  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  His  remains  were  therefore  interred 
quietly  in  the  Temple  burying-ground,  April  pth,  1774, 
and  soon  after  a  subscription  was  commenced  for  the 
purchase  of  the  monument.  It  was  executed  by  Nollekens, 
and  bears  a  large  medallion  with  a  good  resemblance  of 


MEMOIR  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  poet  in  profile ;  underneath,  on  a  tablet  of  white  marble 
is  the  inscription  written  by  Dr.  Johnson  : — 

OLIVARII     GOLDSMITH, 

POET^E,   PHYSICI,   HISTORICI, 
QUI  NULLUM   FERE  SCRIBENDI  GENUS 

NON  TETIGIT, 

NULLUM  QUOD  TETIGIT  NON   ORNAVIT I 
SIVE  RISUS  ESSENT  MOVENDI 

SIVE   LACRYM^E, 

AFFECTUUM   POTENS  AD  LENIS  DOMINATOR  I 

INGENIO   SUBLIMIS,   VIVIDUS,  VERSATILIS, 

ORATIONE  GRANDIS,   NITIDUS  VENUSTUS J 

HOC  MONUMENTO  MEMORIAM  COLUIT 

SODALIUM   AMOR, 

AMICORUM   FIDES, 

ECTORUM  VENERATIO. 

NATUS  IN  HIBERNIA,  FORNI^  LONGFORDIENSIS 
IN  LOCO  GUI   NOMEN   PALLAS, 

NOV.  29,  MDCCXXXL,* 
EBLAN<£  LITERIS  INSTITUTUS  J 

OBIIT   LONDINI, 

APRIL  4,  MDCCLXXIV. 

(TRANSLATION.) 

To  the  Memory  of  Oliver  Goldsmith, 

Poet,  Naturalist,  and  Historian, 
who  left  no  species  of  writing  untouched  or  unadorned  by 

•  A  mistake  not  discovered  till  the  monunxnt  haft  **<a  erected  j.  it  •hoold 

Itif* 


MEMOIR  OP  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  «xvi 

his  pen  ;  a  powerful  master  of  the  passions,  whether  to 
move  to  laughter  or  to  draw  forth  tears  ;  of  a  genius  sub- 
lime, vivid,  and  versatile  ;  in  expression  noble,  pure,  and 
graceful.  This  monument  has  been  consecrated  by  the 
love  of  his  companions,  the  affection  of  his  friends,  and  the 
veneration  of  his  readers.  He  was  born  in  the  kingdom  of 
Ireland,  at  Ferney  in  the  County  of  Longford,  at  a  place 
named  Pallas,  Nov.  29th,  1731  (1728).  He  was  educated 
at  Dublin,  and  died  in  London,  April  4th,  1774. 

Goldsmith's  personal  appearance  by  no  means  equalled 
his  mental  gifts.  He  was  a  short  thick-set  man,  his 
features  large  and  coarse,  and  his  face  much  marked  with 
the  small-pox.  His  manner  was  awkward  ;  and  he  either 
dressed  carelessly,  or  was  absurdly  fine. 

The  great  fault  of  his  character  was  vanity,  both  of  his 
plain  person  and  his  rare  and  delightful  intellectual  gifts ; 
and  the  simplicity  of  his  character,  open  as  a  child's,  exposed 
this  weakness  to  the  sneers  of  those  around  him.  But  he 
had  a  rare  power  of  winning  affection  ;  from  grave  old  Dr. 
Johnson  to  the  smallest  child  who  knew  "Goldy"  all  truly 
loved  him,  and  his  boundless  charity  should  surely  suffice 
to  cover  far  heavier  failings  than  the  simple  pride  of  one 
who  had  risen  by  his  own  talents  from  a  homeless  wanderer 
to  be  the  admired  poet  of  his  day. 

His  genius  was  of  the  highest  order.  Scott's  eulogium 
of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  is  well  known.  Johnson  says  of 
him,  "  Whether  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer, 


«vui  MEMOIR  OP  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

or  as  an  historian  he  stands  in  the  first  class.     Whatever  hi. 
wrote  he  did  it  better  than  any  other  man  could." 

With  this  generous  criticism  from  the  grand  old  moralist 
we  close  our  brief  memoir,  merely  adding  that  so  power- 
fully do  the  comic  weaknesses,  the  humanity,  good  nature, 
and  archness  of  this  prince  of  novelists  affect  the  minds  of 
most  readers,  that,  perhaps,  if  .required  to  name  the  author 
who  has  the  strongest  hold  on  our  affections,  even  in  the 
present  day,  we  should  very  generally  reply,  "Olivet 
Goldsmith." 


GOLDSMITH'S    POEMS. 


THE    TRAVELLER: 

OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 


TO  THE  REV.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 

fEAR  SIR, — I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us 
can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedi- 
cation ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix 
your  name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline  giving  with 
your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you 
from  Switzerland,  the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  in- 
scribed to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts  of  it, 
when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  addressed  to  a  man,  who 
despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired  early  to  happiness  and 
obscurity  with  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  humble 
choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  where  the  harvest 
is  great,  and  the  labourers  are  but  few ;  while  you  have  left  the 
field  of  ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the  harvest 
not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition — wha» 
from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from  different  systems  of  criti 

i 


GOLDSMITHS  POEMS. 


cism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party — that  which  pursues  poetical 
fame  is  the  wildest 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpolished  nations ; 
but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes  of  refinement,  Painting 
and  Music  come  in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind 
a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first  rival  Poetry,  and  ai 
length  supplant  her ;  they  engross  all  that  favour  once  shown 
to  her,  and  though  but  younger  sisters,  seize  upon  the  elder's 
birthright 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  powerful,  it  is 
still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforts  of  the  learned 
to  improve  it  What  criticisms  have  we  not  heard  of  late  in 
favour  of  blank  verse  and  Pindaric  odes,  choruses,  anapests  and 
iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence  !  Every  absurdit) 
has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it;  and  as  he  is  generally  rr.uch 
in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say ;  for  error  is  ever 
talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dangerous ;  I  mean 
party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judgment,  and  destroys  the 
taste.  When  the  mind  is  once  infected  with  this  disease,  it  can 
only  find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  increase  the  distemper. 
Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from  pursuing  man  after  having 
once  preyed  upon  human  flesh,  the  reader  who  has  once  gratified 
his  appetite  with  calumny  makes  ever  after  the  most  agreeable 
feast  upon  murdered  reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire 
some  half-witted  thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man, 
having  lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignity  with 
the  name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons  are  called  satires,  his 
turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither  abuse, 
party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell ;  nor  am  I 
solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right  Without  espousing  the 
cause  of  any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the  rage  of  all. 
I  have  endeavoured  to  show,  that  there  may  be  equal  happiness 
in  states  that  are  differently  governed  from  our  own ;  that  every 
state  has  a  particular  principle  of  happiness ;  and  that  this  prin- 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


ciple  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mischievous  excess.  There 
are  few  can  judge  better  than  yourself  how  far  these  positions  art 
illustrated  in  this  poem. 

I  am, 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  affectionate  brother. 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


|  EMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow — 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  dooi  \ 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies—- 
Where'er I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravelled  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain, 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend! 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  firej 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair : 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  of  pranks  that  never  fail. 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share^ 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care ; 
Impelled,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  viewj 

I— • 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 
When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  Pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man  j 
And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns  with  wealth  and  splendour  crowned, 
Ye  fields  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round, 
Ye  lakes  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 
Ye  bending  swains  that  dress  the  flowery  vale, 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine  I 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er-— 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still — 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest 

But  "where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  j 
As  diffe-ent  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call: 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent— « 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign  contentment  fafla, 
And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state  to  one  loved  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 


GOLDSMITHS  POEMS, 


Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends- 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 
And  trace  the.m  through  the  prospect  as  it  liesj 
Here,  for  a  while  my  proper  cares  resigned, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground- 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year- 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die — 
These,  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious;  though  submissive,  vain} 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue ; 
And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind ; 
For  wealth  was  theirs — not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the  state, 
At  her  command  the  palace  learned  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fall'n  column  sought  the  skies ; 
The  canvas  glowed  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teemed  with  human  form : 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail, 
While  nought  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a  slave  I 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  J 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love — 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled } 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child. 
Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind. 
As  in  those  domes  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  t 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile; 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


My  soul,  turn  from  them  !  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display — 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword. 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest 

Yet  still,  e'en  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Thou6h  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  though  small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  j 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks  that  brighten  at  the  blaze—- 
While his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  be4 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms  j 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast^ 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assigned-* 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined; 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest ; 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve  and  vibrate  through  the  frame ; 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquenched  by  want,  unfanned  by  strong  desire; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow— 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  lowj 
For  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unaltered,  unimproved  the  manners  run — 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the  way— 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire, 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ! 
And  haply — though  my  harsh  touch,  falt'ring  still, 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill- 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  mazej 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display  j 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current — paid  from  hand  to  hand» 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land  j 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise — 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem, 


THE  TRAVELLER.  II 


But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought — 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart } 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace} 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draw% 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause, 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  lands 
And  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow } 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore—* 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  }, 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain— 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soft 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign. 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 


I*  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  displayed.     Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 
But  view  them  closer,  cra£  and  fraud  appear- 
E'en  liberty  itself  is  bartered  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buvs : 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Her  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow — • 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring  j 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide* 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray ; 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 
Intent  on  high  designs — a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiuess  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control ; 
While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  bJo>°«lf  as  man. 


THE  TRAVELLER,  fj 


Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here  ; 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear  ; 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy, 
But,  fostered  e'en  by  freedom,  ills  annoy. 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie  I 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone — 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown. 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repelled. 
Ferments  arise,  imprisoned  factions  roar, 
Repressed  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore- 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  j 
Till  time  may  ccme  when,  stript  of  all  her  charms. 
The  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of  arms — 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toiled,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame— 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonoured  die. 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  I 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage  and  tyrant's  angry  steel—- 
Thou transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun-* 


I4  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure  I 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  tofl  } 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportioned  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportioned  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires^ 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne^ 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own — 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free — 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law— 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home—- 
Fear, pity,  justice,  indignation  start, 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother !  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  -flaring  tapers  bright'ning  as  they  waste? 
Seen  opulence  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


And  over  fields  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decayed, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main — 
Where  wild  Oswego*  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  ways, 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous  aim- 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise — 
The  pensive  exile  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shinefc 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find, 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose^ 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  I 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

•  A  lake  of  th«  State*  New  York. 


,6  GOLDSMITH* S  POEMS. 

The  lifted  axe,  the  agonising  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,*  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel,t 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience  all  our  own.J 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE: 

A  POEM. 
FIRST  PRINTED   IN    1769. 


TO   SIR  JOSHUA   REYNOLDS. 

[JEAR  SIR, — I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  of 
this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  or  to  estab- 
lish my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration, 
as  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel ; 
and  I  may  lose  much  by  the  .severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have 
a  juster  taste  in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside, 
to  which  I  never  paid  umch  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at  pre- 
sent in  following  my  affections.  The  only  dedication  I  ever  made 
was  to  my  brother,  because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other 
Mien.  He  is  since  dead.  Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you. 
How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and  mere 
:necha:iical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I  do  not  pretend  to  inquire ;  but 
1  know  you  will  object  (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 
friends  concur  in  the  opinion),  that  the  depopulation  it  deplores 
is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders  it  laments  are  only  to  be 
found  in  the  poet's  own  imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarcely  make 

*  Luke  Zeck  and  his  brother  George  headed  an  insurrection  in  Hungary, 
A.D.   1514.     George,  not  Luke  (as  the  poet  says  by  mistake),  had  his  head 
encircled  by  a  red-hot  iron  crown  in  mocking  punishment. 

t  Robert  Francois  Damiens,  a  mad  fanatic,  attempted  the  life  of  Louis  XV., 
in  1757.  He  was  put  to  "death  with  horrible  tortures,  being  broken  asunder 
on  the  wheel  and  then  torn  by  horses. 

*  The  last  nine  lines  of  the  "  Traveller"  were  written  by  Dr.  Johnson. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  t) 

:-.iy  othe.r  answer,  than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have 
•  ritten  ;  that  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  ex- 
tirsion  s,  for  these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I 
illege  ;  and  that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe 
ihosve  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is 
not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry,  whether  the  country  be  de 
populating  or  not ;  the  discussion  would  take  up  much  room,  and 
I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indifferent  politician,  to  tire  the 
reader  with  a  long  preface,  when  I  want  his  unfeigned  attention  to 
a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh  against 
the  increase  of  our  luxuries ;  and  here  also  I  expect  the  shout  of 
modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest 
national  advantages ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  in  that  par- 
ticular as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I  must  remain  a  professed 
ancient  on  that  head,  and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries  preju- 
dicial to  states  by  which  so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so 
many  kingdoms  have  been  undone.  Indeed  so  much  has  been 
poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  merely 
for  the  sake  of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to 
be  in  the  right 

I  am, 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  sincere  Mend  and  ardent  admirer, 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


[WEET  AUBURN  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed—- 
Dear lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  ever/  sport  could  please- 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  bumble  happiness  endeared  each 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm-  - 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made : 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree—- 
While many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired, 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place : 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  .would  those  looks  reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled  I 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn : 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  j 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made? 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  j  . 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain : 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose  ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green  ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  AUBURN,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour  1 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  -uined  grounds, 


80  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew — 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain, 

In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share— 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw. 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deepj 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate } 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  j 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron  —  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn- 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain  ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild  ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place  I 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  nour  5 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain, 
The  long  remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed  j 
The  reverend  champion  stood :  at  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church  with  meek  and  unaffected 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  tc  share  the  good  man's  smile. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  43 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed} 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven : 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  gle« 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he , 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frownei 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill ; 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  scur»d» 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame :  the  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  grey-beard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round, 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place : 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door} 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay- 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hearj 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round : 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train — 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  ait 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  25 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway  \ 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined ; 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain — 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay— 
Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore> 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around ; 
Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure — all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  ever)-  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes — 


GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 


But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail- 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed  ; 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  — 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save 

The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long  drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy, 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  1 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah  1  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies* 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed; 

He>  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  J 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head— 

And  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  AUBURN,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  t 

Ah,  no  !    To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  toirid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama*  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned^ 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake — 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  more  murderous  stDl  than  they  j 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies, 

•  A  riYcr  af  Georgia,  United  State*. 


28  GOLDSMITH'S  POEMS. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  1  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  dav 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exile,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main;— 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep,  . 
Retum'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep  I 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave, 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear — 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  reliefj 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury  !  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  I 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  thy  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own ; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  the)  si..iv,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail* 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move — a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand; 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there; 
And  piety,  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unlit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame- 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride — 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  SC-*» 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue — fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell !  and  oh,  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Tornea's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  *  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime. 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  \ 
Teach  him,  that  states,  of  native  strength  possessed, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away ; 

*  A  mountain  of  Mexico. 


\o  GOT  r  SMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  t 

While  self-dependent  power  c*n  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  a*4  the  sky.* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

CLOWN'S   REPLY. 

1753- 

OHN  TROTT  was  desired  by  two  witty  peen, 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears  j 
"  An't  please  you,"  quoth  John,  "  I'm  not  given  to  letters, 
Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters ; 
Flowe'er  from  this  time  I  shall  ne'er  see  your  graces — 
As  I  hope  to  be  saved ! — without  thinking  on  asses. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBECt 

'759- 
1  MIDST  the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 
Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure  start 

O  Wolfe,  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe 

Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear  ; 
Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 

Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  teat. 
Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes ; 
Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead  I 

Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

•  The  four  last  lines  are  by  Dr.  Johnson 

t  General  James  Wolfe  was  born  1726,  v»A  WJ  at^h->  mon>*nt  of  victory  at 
Quebec,  Sept.  !3th,  1759.  Goldsmith  cUufc&A  )»l»tiunship  with  this  gallaa* 
and  distinguished  soldier. 


PROLOGUE  BY  LABERIUS.  S» 


A   PROLOGUE 

WRITTEN   AND   SPOKEN    BY  TH1 

POET    LABERIUS,* 

A,  ROMAN  KNIGHT,  WHOM  CiESA*.  FORCED  UPON  THE  STAGS. 

PRESERVED   BY  MACROBIUS. 

1759- 

|HAT  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stagey 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age  ? 
Scarce  half  alive,  oppressed  with  many  a  year, 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here  ? 

A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide — 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside  \ 

Unawed  by  power,  and  unappalled  by  fear, 

With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honour  dear  \ 

But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 

And  all  my  hoard  of  honour  is  no  more—- 
For ah  !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 

Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine  I 

Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 

Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 

Here,  then,  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 

And  cancel,  at  threescore,  a  life  of  fame. 

No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 

The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well; 

This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 

For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 

*  Decimus  Laberins  wrote  mimes  or  satirical  productions  for  the  stage. 
Csesar  compelled  him  to  perform  in  one  against  his  will;  and  Laberius  spoke  a 
latirical  prologue  against  Caesar  on  the  occasion.  This  prologue  was  preserved 
bj  Aulus  Gellius.  Laberius  died  B.C.  44. 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE    DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION. 
A  TALE. 

I765- 

JECLUDED  from  domestic  strife, 
Jack  Book-worm  led  a  college  life} 
A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 
Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  J 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  cracked  his  joke, 

And  freshmen  wondered  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures  unalloyed  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six? 
Oh  !  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town ; 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet  Street  shop  I 
Oh  !  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze  I 
Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze! 

Oh  I but  let  exclamations  cease, 

Her  presence  banished  all  his  peace. 

So  with  decorum  all  things  carried ; 

Miss  frowned,  and  blushed,  and  then  wa?  married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallowed  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around? 
Let  it  suffice  that  each  had  charms ; 
He  clasped  a  goddess  in  his  arms ; 
And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Vet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too ; 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION.  33 

A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mixed  with  bliss, 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  passed  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  decked  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace ; 
But  still  the  worst  remained  behind — 
That  very  face  had  robbed  her  mind, 

Skilled  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee ; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 
'Tis  true  she  dressed  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked  at  a  ball  or  race ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  night-caps  wrapped  her  head*     . 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend  ? 
Could  any  curtain  lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing? 
In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting ; 
By  day  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 
Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powdered  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 
The  'squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twenty  other  near  relations : 
Jack  sucked  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke ; 
While  all  their  hours  were  passed  between 
Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 

Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows, 
Or  thins  her  lip,  or  points  her  nose : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes  f 


J4  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil. 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now  to  perplex  the  ravelled  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues — 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life — 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower : — 
Lo  !  the  small-pox — whose  horrid  glare 
Bevelled  its  terrors  at  the  fair ; 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams  j 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens ; 
The  'squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  ev'n  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam  now  condemned  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old : 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed. 
Humility  displaces  pride ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean  t 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION.  33 

No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good-nature  every  day: 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


A  NEW  SIMILE 

IN    THE    MANNER    OF    SWIFT. 
1765. 

ONG  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind — 
The  modern  scribbling  kind  who  write^ 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite — 

Till  reading,  I  forget  what  day  on, 

A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon,* 

I  think  I  met  with  something  there 

To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 

But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious — 

First  please  to  turn  to  God  Mercurius: 

You'll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 

In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth : 

The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 

And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  Pray  observe  his  hat, 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather? 
Why  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather !  very  right — 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bards  decreed : 
A  just  comparison, — proceed. 

•  A  School  Mythology,  written  by  Andrew  Tooke,   head-master  of  the 
Charterhouse. 


36  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes ; 
Designed,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air  x 
And  here  my  simile  unites — 
For  in  the  modern  poefs  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t*  observe  his  hand, 
Filled  with  a  snake-encircled  wand, 
By  classic  authors  termed  Caduceus, 
And  highly  famed  for  several  uses. 
To  wit — most  wondrously  endued, 
No  poppy  water  half  so  good ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore. 
Add  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  hell. 

Now  to  apply,  begin  we  then ; 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twined, 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind — 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venomed  bites, 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike  too  both  conduce  to  sleep — 
This  difference  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod, 
With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  elfj 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postscript 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 


Moreover  Mercury  had  a  failing  : 
.  Well !  what  of  that  ?  out  with  it— stealing: 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he  ; 
But  ev'n  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance : 
Our  modern  bards  !  why — what  a  pox 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks? 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  AUTHOR'S  BEDCHAMBER  * 

|  HERE  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay ; 
Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  cham- 
pagne, 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane : 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretched  beneath  a  rug  t 
A  window  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay : 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  : 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread : 
The  Royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew. 
The  seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  Williamt  showed  his  lamp-black  fac& 
The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  ; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  five  cracked  tea-cups  dressed  the  chimney  board  \ 
A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  I 

•  Goldsmith  intended  this  for  the  beginning  of  a  serio-comic  poem  on  the 
shifts  and  struggles  of  a  poor  author,  but  never  finished  it. 
f  The  Duke  of  Cumberland.        » 


GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  PL  EMS. 


THE  GIFT. 

TO  IRIS,  IN  BOW  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN — IMITATK) 
FROM  THE  FRENCH.* 

|  AY,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 
My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 
The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver? 
A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 
'  My  rivals  give — and  let  'em  I 
If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 
I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 

Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion : 
Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 

A  transitory  passion, 
I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 

Not  less  sincere  than  civil — 
111  give  thee — ah  !  too  charming  maid  I— 
I'll  give  thee — to  the  devil ! 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL.t 

HIS  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell's  name, 
May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame, 
What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 
That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery  way! 

'  OfGercourt 

t  Dr.  Thomas  Parnell  was  an  Irish  poet  and  divine,  born  1679,  died  1717. 
His  cbief  poem  is  the  "  Hermit" 


off  DR.  PARNELL. 


Celestial  themes  confessed  his  tuneful  aid  ; 
And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 
Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below : 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON.» 

ERE  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  : 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 


THE  -HERMIT. 

THE  FOLLOWING  LETTER,  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PRINTER  OF  THE  "  ST. 
JAMES'S  CHRONICLE,"  APPEARED  IN  THAT  PAPER  IN  JUNE,  1767^ 

]IR,  as  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper  con 
troversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as 
concise  as  possible  in  informing  a  correspondent  of  yours, 
that  I  recommended  Blainville's  Travels,  because  I 
thought  the  book  was  a  good  one,  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said  1 
was  told  by  the  bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published ;  but 
in  that,  it  seems,  I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not 
extensive  enough  to  set  me  right. 

*  This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  but,  having 
wasted  his  patrimony,  enlisted  as  a  foot  soldier  Growing  tired  of  that  mode  of 
life  he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  became  a  scribbler  in  the  newspapers.  He 
translated  Voltaire's  "Henriade." 

t  He  had  been  accused  in  the  St.  JatruJt  Chronicle  of  imitating  Percy's 
ballad  "The  Friar  of  Orders  Grey.  Both,  probably,  were  indebted  to 
the  old  ballad,  "Gentle  Herdsman."  See  "Legendary  Ballads,"  Warae'* 
"Qiaados  PoeU." 


40  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having  taken  a 
ballad  I  published  some  time  ago  from  one*  by  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  between 
the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad  is  taken 
from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago ;  and  he  (as 
we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles  at  best)  told  me  with  his 
usual  good  humour,  the  next  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  had  taken 
my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shakespeare  into  a  ballad  of  his 
own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  cento,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  and  1 
highly  approved  it.  Such  petty  anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely 
worth  printing ;  and,  were  it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some 
of  your  correspondents,  the  public  should  never  have  known  that 
he  owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am  obliged  to  his 
friendship  and  learning  for  communications  of  a  much  more  im- 
portant nature. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c., 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

A  BALLAD. 

1765. 

URN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vali 
With  hospitable  ray ; 

"For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow — 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 

"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 

To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

•  "Tht  Friar  of  Orders  Grey."—"  Reliq.  of  Anc.  Poetry,"  roL  i.  boox  A, 
No.  IS. 


THE  HERMIT.  41 


"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

1  give  it  with  goodwill. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them : 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring — 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends^ 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatcll 

Required  a  master's  care ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  pressed,  and  smiled) 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries — 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe— 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied— 
With  answering  care  opprest ; 

*  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 

"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

*  From  better  habitations  spurned, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

"Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

*  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep — 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


THE  HERMIT.  43 


*  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest 

*  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view — 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

u  And  ah !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried —  . 

*  Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

a  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray— 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

*  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine 
He  had  but  only  me. 

"To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feigned  a  flame. 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

u  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

"  In  humble  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  : 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had  — 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

*  And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroled  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

"The  blossom  op'ning  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

*The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his  ;  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

*  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain  ; 

And  while  his  passion  touched  my  hearty 
I  triumphed  in  his  pain  ; 


quite  dejected  ^with  my  scorn, 
He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 
In  secret,  where  he  died. 

a  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  faulty 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay; 

Fll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay  } 


THE  HERMIT.  4$ 


•*  And  there,  forlorn,  despairing  bid- 
Ill  lay  me  down  and  die ; 

Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heav*n  !"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast : 

The  wond'ring  fair  one  turned  to  chide— 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  pressed. 

*  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear— 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  herefc 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine ! 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON;* 

A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LORD  CLARE, 
•     1765. 

HANKS,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fattet 
Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter ; 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy. 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help  regretting 

To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating : 

•  Imitated  from  Boileau, 


46  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view, 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in, 
But  hold — let  me  pause.     Don't  I  hear  you  pronounce^ 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce :  I  protest  in  my  turn, 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Bum.* 

To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch- 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undressed, 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose : 
Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Monroe's  :t 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the  when. 
There's  Howard,  and  Colley,J  and  Hogarth,  and  Hiff,§ 
I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef. 
There's  my  countryman,  Higgins — Oh  let  him  alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them — their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wfnting  a  shirt 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
An  acquaintance — a  friend,  as  he  called  himself — entered ; 

*  Lord  Clare's  nephew. 

t  Dorothy  Monroe,  a  beautiful  woman,  celebrated  by  Lord  Townsend'j 
tines. 

J  Colman. 
§  AD  Irish  author  now  forgotten. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON.  4} 

Vn  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 

\nd  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and  me. 

"  What  have  we  got  here  ? — Why  this  is  good  eating  i 

Your  own,  I  suppose  —  or  is  it  in  waiting  ?" 

"  Why,  whose  should  it  be?"  cried  I  with  a  flounce, 

"  I  get  these  things  often" — but  that  was  a  bounce; 

"  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation, 

Are  pleased  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation." 

"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 
11  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way: 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me ; 
NJo  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three ; 
Ve'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wits  will  be  there} 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  lord  Clare. 
\.nd,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
^Ve  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner. 
•Vhat  say  you — a  pasty  ?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
Vnd  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 

I  ere,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end: 
so  stirring,  I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear  friend  !" 
;'iuis,  snatching  his  hat,  he  brushed  off  like  the  wind, 

t  nd  the  porter  and  eatables  tollowed  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
\nd  "nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself;"* 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hastf, 
/et  Johnson  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
V'ere  things  that  I  never  disjjtked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogged  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
>o  next  day  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
!  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine; 
A  chair-lumbered  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine :) 

*  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Royal  Highness  Henry,  Duke  of 

Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvenor.      1769. 


,  48  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come ; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried,  "both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with  Thrale  ;* 
But  no  matter,  I'll -warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors,  like  you  \ 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinna — he  owns  to  Panurge  ? 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by  name^ 
They  entered,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top,  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 
At  the  sides  there  was  spinach,  and  pudding  made  hotj 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was  not 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round  : 
But  what  vexed  me  most  was  that  d — - — d  Scottish  rogue, 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and  his  brogue^ 
And  "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on : 
Pray,  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst" 
"  The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  "if  the  truth  I  may  speak, 
I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week : 
I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small ; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing  at  alL* 
"  O — ho  !"  quoth  my  friend,  "  he'll  come  on  in  a 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice ; 
There's  a  pasty" — "  A  pasty !"  repeated  the  Jew, 
"  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too.* 

•  The  great  brewer  and  friend  of  Dr.  Johmo* 


TffS  HAUXCtt  OF  VENISOM.  49 

"What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  !"  re-echoed  the  Scot, 

u  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that" 

"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out ; 

"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echoed  about 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delayed, 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  entered  the  maid : 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 

Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night 

But  we  quickly  found  out — for  who  could  mistake  her  ?— 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker : 

And  so  it  fell  out ;  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  nis  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 

And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  misplaced 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste  ; 
You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning, 
A  relish — a  taste — sickened  over  by  learning  ; 
At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own : 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

FROM  THE  "  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD." 

OOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  oray. 


GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 
And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 
This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 
Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streeti 

The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 
The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad, 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 
But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied, 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


EPILOGUES   AND    PROLOGUES, 

EPILOGUE 

TO  THE   COMEDY   OF   "THE   SISTERS."* 

|HAT?  five  long  acts — and  all  to  make  us  wiser? 
Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 
Had  she  consulted  me^  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade ; 

*  By  Charlotte  Lennox,  a  lady  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson 
and  of  Richardson,  the  author  of  "  Pamela. "  She  wrote  the  "Female  Quixote," 
and  several  plays,  &c.  She  was  born  at  New  York,  and  died  1804.  Johnsoa 
laid  she  was  the  cleverest  woman  of  her  age.  S«*  "  BoswelL" 


EPILOGUES  AND  PROLOGUES. 

— _  -  -     - 

Warmed  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage 

Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 

My  life  on't,  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking ; 

Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  of  thinking. 

Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 

What  if  I  give  a  masquerade?— I  will. 

But  how  ?  ay,  there's  the  rub  !  [pausing] — I've  got  my  cue , 

The  world's  a  masquerade  !  the  masquers,  you,  you,  you. 

[To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery. 
Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses  ! 
False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses  I 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on ;  and  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots  in  party-coloured  suits  that  ride  'em. ' 
There  Hebes,  turned  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore. 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen. 
Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman ; 
The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure. 
Thus  'tis  with  all ;  their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  everything — but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  e**    on, 
Who  seems  t'  have  robbed  his  vizor  from  the  lion  j 
Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round  parade, 
Looking  as  who  should  say,  dam'me !  who's  afraid  ? 

\Mimicking. 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and  sure  I  am 
You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb. 
Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state  j 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume, 
He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 
Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 
And  seems  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 


$2  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

If  with  a  bribe  his  candour  you  attack, 

He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip — the  man's  a  black  I 

Yon  critic,  too — but  whither  do  I  run  ? 

If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone  1 

Well  then  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too : 

Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE  TO  "  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER." 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLEY. 

Enter  MRS.  BUUCLEY  who  curtseys  very  low  as  beginning  to  speak 
Then  enter  Miss  CATLEY,  who  stands  full  before  her  and  curtseys 
to  the  Audience. 

Mrs.  Bui.  Hold,  Ma'am,  your  pardon.    What's  your  business 


Miss  Cat.  The  Epilogue. 

Mrs.  Bui.  The  Epilogue  ? 

Miss  Cat.  Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Bui.  Sure  you  mistake,  Ma'am.     The  Epilogue,  /bring  it 

Miss  Cat.  Excuse  me,  Ma'am.     The  Author  bid  me  sing  it 

RECITATIVE. 

Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

Mrs.  Bui.    Why,  sure  the  girl's  beside  herself  1   an  Epilogur 

of  singing, 

\  hopeful  end  indeed  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 
i  Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set  — 
xcuse  me,  Ma'am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

Miss  Cat.  What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  House  ? 

Mrs.  Bui.  The  House  !—  Agreed. 

Miss  Cat.  Agreed. 

Wrs.  Bui.  And  she  whose  party's  largest  shall  proceed. 
v    \  first  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree, 

.  o  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me. 


EPILOGUE  TO  "SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER*  5$ 

They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands : 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What,  no  return  ?     I  find  too  late,  I  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 

Miss  Cat.  I'm  for  a  different  set. — Old  men,  whose  trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

RECITATIVE. 

Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling, 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling. 

AIR — COTILLON. 

Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 

Strephon  caught  thy  ravished  eye. 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 
Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu, 
Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho. 

[Da,  Capo. 

Mrs.  Bui  Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit ; 
Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit 
Ye  travelled  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train, 
Of  French  friseurs,  and  nosegays,  justly  vain, 
Who  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a  year 
To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here—- 
Lend me  your  hands. — O  fatal  news  to  tell, 
Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinel.* 

Miss  Cat.  Ay,  take  your  travellers — travellers  indeed  t 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the  Tweed. 
Where  are  the  chiels  ?     Ah,  ah  !  I  well  discern, 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

AIR. — A  BONNY  YOUNG  LAD  IS  MY  JOCKEY. 

1*11  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 
And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay ; 

A  popular  dancer  at  the  Opera  House,  1773 


54  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 
My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Sawney,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 
Mrs.  Bui.  Ye  Gamesters,  who  so  eager  in  pursuit, 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute : 
Ye  Jockey  tribe  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 
"  I  hold  the  odds — Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you." 
Ye  barristers  so  fluent  with  grimace, 
"  My  Lord — your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case.18 
Doctors,  who  answer  every  misfortuner, 
"  I  wish  I'd  been  called  in  a  little  sooner." 
Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 
Come  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

AIR. — BALLINAMONY. 

Miss  Cat  Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack, 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woful  attack : 
For — sure  I  don't  wrong  you — you  seldom  are  slack, 
When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back. 
For  you're  always  polite  and  attentive, 
Still  to  amuse  us  inventive. 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive. 

Your  hands  and  your  voices  for  me. 
Mrs.  Bui.  Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  sparring, 
We  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring  ? 

Miss  Cat.  And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  unbroken, 
What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 
Mrs.  Bui.  Agreed. 
Miss  Cat.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  Bui.  And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit 


AN  EPILOGUE.  $5 


AN  EPILOGUE, 

INTENDED  FOR  MRS.  BULKLEY. 

I  HERE  is  a  place — so  Ariosto  sings,* 
A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things : 
Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assigned  them, 
And  they,  who  lose  their  senses,  there  may  find  them. 

But  where's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age? 

The  Moon,  says  he : — but  I  affirm  the  Stage  :— 

At  least  in  many  things,  I  think,  I  see 

His  lunar,  and  our  mimic  world  agree, 

Both  shine  at  night,  for  but  at  Foote's  alone, 

We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down  : 

Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 

And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 

But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is. 

That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses, 

To  this  strange  spot,  rakes,  macaronies,t  cits, 

Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scattered  wits. 

The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 

Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 

Hither  the  affected  city  dame  advancing, 

Who  sighs  for  operas,  and  dotes  on  dancing, 

Taught  by  our  art  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 

Quits  the  Ballet,  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson, 

The  Gamester,  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 

Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw. 

Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 

Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts, 

The  Mohawk  \  too — with  angry  phrases  stored 

As  "  Dam'me,  sir,"  and  "  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword  ?-**, 

*  See  Ariosto,  canto  34. 

f  A  macaroni  was  a  travelled  fop  of  those  days. 

j  The  Mohawks  were  the  riotous  bullies  who  traversed  the  streets  of  London 
at  night,  and  thought  injuring  and  insulting  the  passers-by  good  sport.  Scf 
account  of  them  in  the  Totltr, 


t  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Here  lessoned  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Hwe  come  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense — for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser, 
Our  Author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser : 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favour  place, 
On  sentimental  Queens  and  Lords  in  lace  ? 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet  or  garter, 
How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment ;  the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  nature. 
Yes,  he's  far  gone  : — and  yet  some  pity  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics. 


PROLOGUE  TO  "  ZOBEIDE,"  A  TRAGEDY. 

Written  by  Joseph  Cradock;  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Cffvent  Garden, 

|N  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore 
The  distant  climates  and  the  savage  shore — 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer,* 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  hers — 

While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling,t 

Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently — go  simpling ; 

Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 

And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 

With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 

He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading , 

Yet  ere  he  lands  he's  ordered  me  before 

To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 

Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost  I 

This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast 

•  Cook  and  Green.  t  Burke  and  Solandar. 


PROLOGUE  TO  "  ZOBEIDE*  $7 

Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under ! 

Yon  ill-foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder; 

[Upper  Gallery. 
There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen  'em — 

[Pit. 
Here  trees  of  stately  size — and  turtles  in  'em — 

[Balconies. 

Here  ill-conditioned  oranges  abound —  [Stage. 

A  !M I  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground  :     [Tasting  them. 
The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear  : 
I  hear  a  hissing— there  are  serpents  here  I 
O,  there  the  natives  are — a  dreadful  race, 
The  men  have  tails,  the  women  paint  the  face  ; 
Xo  doubt  they're  all  barbarians — yes,  'tis  so; 
I'll  try  to  make  palaver  with  them  though ; 
Tis  best,  however,  keeping  at  a  distance. 
Good  savages,  our  Captain  craves  assistance  ! 
Our  ship's  well  stored — in  yonder  creek  we've  laid  her, 
His  honour  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure ;  lend  him  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from  far, 
Kqually  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What  ?  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample  ? 
I'd  best  step  back — and  order  up  a  sample. 


EPILOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  LEE  LEWES, 

IN   THE    CHARACTER   OF    HARLEQUIN,    AT   HIS    BENEFIT. 

OLD  !  Prompter,  hold  !  a  word  before  your  nonsense : 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said, 
My  heels  eclipsed  the  honours  of  my  head ; 

That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest, 

Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest,          [Takes  off  his  mask 


5&  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 

Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth  ; 

In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 

The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  woe  that  weeps. 

How  hast  thou  filled  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 

Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursued  ! 

Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 

Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses  : 

Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  demons  rise* 

And  from  above  the  dangling  deities  ; 

And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallowed  crew? 

May  rosined  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do  1 

No — I  will  act,  111  vindicate  the  stage : 

Shakespeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 

Off !  off !  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns, 

The  maddening  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 

Oh  !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme ;  [dream." 

"  Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  ! — soft — 'twas  but  a 

Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating  ; 

If  I  cease  Harlequin  I  cease  from  eating. 

'Twas  thus  that  ^sop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 

Vet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 

Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 

And  cavilled  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 

"  The  deuce  confound,"  he  cries,  "  these  drumstick  shanks, 

They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks  ; 

They're  perfectly  disgraceful  !  strike  me  dead  I 

[Jut  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 

How  piercing  is  that  eye ;  how  sleek  that  brow  I 

My  horns !  I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now." 

vVhilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonished,  to  his  view, 

Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  drewj 

Hoicks  !  hark  forward  !  came  thund'ring  from  behind, 

He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind: 

He  quits  the  %voods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways- 

ile  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze, 


PROLOGUE  TO  "  ZOBEIDE  *  59 

At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 
Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 
And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself,  like  me. 

[Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  door. 


THE  LOGICIANS   REFUTED. 

IN    IMITATION   OF  DEAN    SWIFT. 

LOGICIANS  have  but  ill  defined 
As  rational  the  human  mind ; 
Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 
But  let  ^hem  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglecius,* 

By  ratiocinations  specious, 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division, 

Homo  est  ratione  preditum — 

But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  'em  j 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 

Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature. 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide, 

Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em—* 

Deus  est  anima  brutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 

At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute. 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery? 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery? 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfined, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind ; 

•  A  Polish  Jesuit  bora  1562,  died  i6i8,  who  wrote  a  Treatise  on  Logic  use<! 
at  the  foreign  universities. 


bo  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport, 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court ; 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend,  a  foe ; 

They  never  importune  his  Grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob  :* 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Paternoster  Row ; 

No  jugglers,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds  't 

No  single  brute  his  fellows  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  other's  throats  for  pay, 

Of  beasts  it  is  confessed,  the  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape. 

Like  man  he  imitates  each  fashion, 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion : 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 

A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 

Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 

Upon  the  minister  of  state ; 

View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 

Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors  i 

He  promises  with  equal  air, 

And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 

He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators, 

At  court,  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 

Their  master's  manners  still  contract — 

And  footmen,  lords,  and  dukes  can  act. 

Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  awd  sm«U 

Behave  alike — for  all  ape  all 

»  Sk  Robert  Walpote 


AN  ELEGY  TO  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE.  6l 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

|OOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word— 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise, 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left,  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please 

With  manners  wondrous  winning; 
And  never  followed  wicked  ways — 

Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size ; 
She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew— 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 
The  king  himself  has  followed  her— 

When  she  has  walked  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead-* 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  moro  a 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 


62  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  A   BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH   STRUCK  BLIND 
BY  LIGHTNING. 

IMITATED    FROM    THE   SPANISH. 

UMINE  Aeon  dextro  capta  est  Leonida  sinistro, 

Et  poterat  forma  vincere  uterque  Deos. 
Parve  puer,  lumen  quod  habes  concede  puellae: 
Sic  tu  oecus  Amor  sic  erit,  ilia  Venus. 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH   STRUCK   BLIND 
BY  LIGHTNING. 

URE  'twas  by  Providence  designed, 

Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 
That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus'*  fate. 


A  SONNET. 

EEPING,  murmuring,  complaining^ 

Lost  to  ev'ry  gay  delight ; 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning, 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection  ? 

Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  ? 
Had  Myra  follow'd  my  direction, 

She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 

Narcissus  fell  in  love  with  his  own  image  in  a  brook,  and  died  of  self-lore. 


SONGS.  63 

SONG  FROM  THE  « VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD." 

ON    WOMAN. 

jjHEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die* 


SONG.» 

Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer*  hit  omitted 
because  the  actress  who  flayed  Miss  Hardcastle  did  not  sing. 

;H  me  !  when  shall  I  marry  me? 

Lovers  are  plenty  but  fail  to  relieve  me, 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 
Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me, 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner ! 

Not  a  look,  not  a  smile  shall  my  passion  discover; 
She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 

Makes  but  a  penitent  and  loses  a  lover. 


RETALIATION. 

PRINTED   IN    1774,    AFTER   THE  AUTHOR'S   DEATH, 

1R.  GOLDSMITH  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally 
dined  at  the  St.  James's  Coffee-House. — One  day  it  was 
proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on  him.  His  country,  dia- 
lect, and  person  furnished  subjects  of  witticism.  He 
was  called  on  for  RETALIATION,  and  at  their  next  meeting  pro- 
duced the  following  poem. 

*  This  song  Goldsmith  used  to  sing  to  a  pretty  Irish  air,  called  "The 
Humours  of  Ballamaguiry." 


f*  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

OF  old,  when  Scarron*  his  companions  invited, 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united: 

If  our  landlordt  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the'  best  dirr* 

Our  DeanJ  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 

Our  Burke§  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains ; 

Our  Will||  shall  be  wild  fowl  of  excellent  flavour, 

And  DickH  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savour ; 

Dur  Cumberland's**  sweet-bread  its  place  shall  obtain,     • 

And  Douglastt  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  ; 

Our  Garrick'sJI  a  salad — for  in  him  we  see 

Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree; 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 

That  Ridge§§  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds ||||  is  lambj 

That  Hickey's1Tir  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 

Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fooL 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 

Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 

Here,  waiter,  more  wine ;  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 

Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 

Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

*  Paul  Scarron  was  a  popular  French  author  ;  the  husband  of  the  celebrated 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  He  was  extremely  poor,  and  the  feasts  described 
by  Goldsmith  were  his  mode  of  entertaining  his  friends.  Scarron  was  bom 
1610,  died  1600. 

t  The  landlord  of  the  coffee-house, 

%  Dr.  Barnard,  Dean  of  Deny. 

§  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke,  the  celebrated  orator. 

(I  Mr.  William  Burke,  a  relation  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  M.P.  for  Bedwin. 
Secretary  to  General  Conway. 

11  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  youngest  brother  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  Recorder  of 
BritfoL 

**  The  dramatist. 

•fr  Dr.  Douglas,  canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

JJ  The  celebrated  actor. 

§§  John  Ridge,  a  barrister  in  the  Irish  court*, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

*«•    An  Irish  lawyer. 


RETALIATION.  6$ 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth  : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks,  I  could  not  find  them  out  j 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em. 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowetf  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat, 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend*  to  lend  him  a  vote j 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convin  ing,  while  they  thought  of  dining. 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit: 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right,  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't  t 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong  ; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam — 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas  !  he  had  none ; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own* 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,f  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at* 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim  I 
Now  breaking  a  jestj — and  now  breaking  a  limb  I 

*  Thomas  Townshend,  afterwards  Lord  Sydney, 

t  Richard  Burke. 

£  He  had  recently  fractured  his  arm,  5 


66  GOLDSMTTITS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  bah ; 

Now  teasing  and  vexing — yet  laughing  at  all ! 

In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 

That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old  Nick; 

But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 

As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are* 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  I 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout 
His  fools  have  their  follies  wo  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own* 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few> 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks  I 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines. 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  feared  for  your  safety,  I  feared  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds*  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenrickst  shall  lecture— 

•  The  Rev.  Dr.  Dodd,  a  popular  preacher,  who  was  hung  for  forgery. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern  under  the  title  ol 
"  The  School  of  Shakespeare,"  He  was  a  man  of  uo  principle;  he  had  severely 
libelled  Goldsmith. 


RETALIATION.  67 


Macpherson*  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile  : 
New  Lauderst  and  Bowers  J  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 
•        No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover ;  § 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  ; 
As  an  actor  confessed  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  hearty 
The  man  had  his  failings — a  dupe  to  his  art 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a-day : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  gluttcn,  he  swallowed  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please. 

*  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  about  whom  disputes  were  then  raging  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  his  edition  of  Ossian's  Poems. 

f  Will  Lauder,  a  Scotch  schoolmaster,  attempted  fraudulently,  by  translat- 
ing portions  of  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost  "into  Latin  and  interpolating  them 
with  the  "  Adamus  Exul"  of  Grotius,  &c.,  &c.,  to  make  it  appear  full  ol 
plagiarisms.  Dr.  Douglas  detected  and  exposed  this  imposition,  and  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  had  been  deceived  by  it,  made  Lauder  confess  and  apologise. 

%  Bower  was  a  Scotch  Jesuit,  who  wrote  and  published  a  pamphlet  called 
"Motives  of  Conversion  from  Popery  to  Protestantism."  Dr.  Douglas  ex 
amined  this  pamphlet  and  convicted  Bower  of  gross  falsehood  and  imposture  ir 
his  statement. 

§  Dr.  Douglas  being  supposed  dead. 

5— • 


t*  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,*  ye  Woodfallst  so  grave, 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  I 

How  did  Grub -street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 

While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  bepraised  1 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  s*kies : 

Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will, 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good -nature ; 
He  cherished  his  friend,  and  he  relished  a  bumper, 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 
I  answer  no,  no — for  he  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  ah,  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come  tell  it.  and  burn  ye, 
He  was — could  he  help  it  ? — a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland : 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart ; 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing; 

•  Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  "Fake  Delicacy,"    'Word  to  the  Wise/ 

Clementina,"  "School  for  Wives,"  &c.,  &c. 

*•  Mr.  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chroniclf 


POSTSCRIPT.  69 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuff 

POSTSCRIPT. 

AFTER  the  fourth  edition  of  this  Poem  was  printed,  the  puhlishei 
received  the  following  epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoordt  from  a  friend 
of  the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

HERE  Whitefoord  reclines,  and  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man  s 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  1 
Who  relished  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere  j 
A  stranger  to  flatt'ry,  a  stranger  to  fear ; 
Who  scattered  around  wit  and  humour  at  will ; 
Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill ; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free  $ 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas !  that  so  lib'ral  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined  I 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  "  if  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar;* 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  \  confess'd  him  a  wit 

Ye  newspaper  witlings  !  ye  pert  scribbling  folks  1 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes  ; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb  j 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 

*  Sir  Joshua .  Reynolds  was  so  deaf,  that  he  was  obliged  to  use  an  ear- 
trumpet  in  company. 

t  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays.  He  was  so  no- 
torious a  punster,  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  be  with 
him  without  being  infected  with  the  itch  of  punning. 

J  Mr.  H.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  t.he  Public  Advertiser. 


70  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 
Cross-readings,  ship-news,  and  mistakes  of  the  press  * 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I'd  almost  said  wit. 
This  debt  to  thy  mem'ry  I  cannot  refuse, 
"Thou  best-humoured  man  with  the  worst-humoured  Muse." 


BURLESQUE  ELEGY  ON  A  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
PERSON. 

FROM  THE   "CITIZEN   OF  THE   WORLD." 

AM  amazed  that  none  have  yet  found  out  the  secret 
of  flattering  the  worthless,  and  y«jt  of  preserving  a  safe 
conscience.  I  have  often  wished  for  some  method 
by  which  a  man  might  do  himself  and  his  deceased 
patron  justice,  without  being  under  the  hateful  reproach  of  self- 
conviction.  After  long  lucubration  I  have  hit  upon  such  an 
expedient,  and  send  you  a  specimen  of  a  poem  upon  the 
decease  of  a  great  man,  in  which  the  flattery  is  perfectly  fine,  and 
yet  the  poet  perfectly  innocent" 


ON   THE  DEATH   OF  THE   RIGHT  HONOURABLE  — —  , 

|  E  muses,  pour  the  pitying  tear 
For  Pollio  snatched  away : 
Oh,  had  he  lived  another  year- 
He  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oh,  were  he  born  to  bless  mankind 

In  virtuous  times  of  yore, 
Heroes  themselves  had  fall'n  behind— 

Whene'er  he  went  before. 

•  Mr.  Whitefoord  sent  humorous  pieces  wider  those  titles  to  the  Publtt 
Advertiser. 


BURLESQUE  ELEGY.  71 

How  sad  the  groves  and  plains  appear, 

And  sympathetic  sheep : 
Ev'n  pitying  hills  would  drop  a  tear— > 

If  hills  could  learn  to  weep. 

His  bounty  in  exalted  strain 

Each  bard  may  well  display: 
Since  none  implored  relief  in  vain— 

That  went  relieved  away. 

And  hark !  I  hear  the  tuneful  throng 
His  obsequies  forbid : 

He  still  shall  live,  shall  live  as  long- 
As  ever  dead  man  did. 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION  TO  DINNFR. 

THIS  IS   A   POEM!   THIS    IS   A  COPY   OF  VERSES, 

JIOUR  mandate  I  got— 


You  may  all  go  to  pot ! 
Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You'd  have  sent  before  night. 

As  I  hope  to  be  saved, 

I  put  off  being  shaved, 

For  I  could  not  make  bold, 

While  the  matter  was  cold, 

To  meddle  in  suds, 

Or  to  put  on  my  duds ; 

So  tell  Horneck  and  Nesbiti, 

And  Baker  and  his  bit, 

And  KaufTman*  beside, 

And  the  Jessamy  bride,t 

With  the  rest  of  the  crew 

The  Reynoldses  two, 

Angelica  Kauffman.  t  Miss  Mary  Hornedfc 


J*  GOLDSMITHS.  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Little  Comedy's*  face, 
And  the  Captaint  in  lace. 
— (By-the-by,  you  may  tell  him 
I  have  something  to  sell  him  j 
Of  use,  I  insist, 
When  he  comes  to  enlist 
Your  worships  must  know 
That  a  few  days  ago, 
An  order  went  out^ 
For  the  foot-guards  so  stout 
To  wear  tails  in  high  taste- 
Twelve  inches  at  least : 
Now  I've  got  him  a  scale 
To  measure  each  tail ; 
To  lengthen  a  short  tail, 
And  a  long  one  to  curtail.) 
Yet  how  can  I,  when  vext, 
Thus  stray  from  my  text 
Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew, 
For  sending  so  late 
To  one  of  my  state. 
But  'tis  Reynolds's  way 
From  wisdom  to  stray, 
And  Angelica's^  whim 
To  be  frolic  like  him— 

But,  alas  !  your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be  wiser, 

When  both  have  been  spoiled  in  to-day's  Advertiser  ?§ 
» 

*  Miss  Catherine  Horneck,  afterwards  Mrs.  Bunbury. 

t  Ensign  Horneck. 

t  Angelica  Kauffman  was  born  at  Chur,  in  Switzerland,  1742.  She  was  a  cele- 
brated female  artist,  and  was  one  of  the  original  thirty-six  members  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  A  large  allegorical  painting  of  hers,  called  "  Religion  attended 
by  the  Graces,"  is  exhibited  now  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum  Galleries. 
Angelica  married  Antonio  Zucchi,  and  died  at  Rome,  1807. 

§  The  allusion  is  to  a  high  compliment  paid  to  the  two  artists  in 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION  73 


ANSWER   TO  AN   INVITATION  TO  PASS  THE 
CHRISTMAS  AT  BARTON.* 

IRST  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true, 
The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be — loo ; 
All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure, 
And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fixed  in  the  centre. 
Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I  inwardly  damn 
At  never  once  finding  a  visit  from  Para. 
I  lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool, 
While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool  j 
I  fret  in  my  gizzard — yet  cautious  and  sly, 
I  wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I : 
Yet  still  they  sit  snug ;  not  a  creature  will  aim, 
By  losing  their  money,  to  venture  at  fame. 
'Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I  scold, 
Tis  in  vain  that  I  flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold ; 
All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass  t 
"  What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury  ?"     "  I,  sir  ?  I  pass." 
"  Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck  ?  Take  courage,  come,  do  P 
"  Who — I  ?  Let  me  see,  sir ;  why,  I  must  pass,  too." 
Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I  fret  like  the  Devil, 
To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil ; 
Yet  still  I  sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 
Till,  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a  lion, 
I  venture  at  all,  while  my  avarice  regards 
The  whole  pool  as  my  own.     "  Come,  give  me  five  cards.* 
"  Well  done  !"  cry  the  ladies ;  "  ah  1  Doctor,  that's  good—    • 
The  pool's  very  rich.     Ah  1  the  Doctor  is  loo'd." 
Thus  foil'd  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplext, 
I  ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that's  next 
"  Pray,  ma'am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice ; 
Don't  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  fort  twice?" 

•  To  Mrs.  Bunbury. 


74  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"I  advise,"  cries  the  lady,  "to  try  it,  I  own — 

Ah  !  the  Doctor  is  loo'd  :  come,  Doctor,  put  down." 

Thus  playing  and  playing,  I  still  grow  more  eager, 

And  so  bold,  and  so  bold,  I'm  at  last  a  bold  beggar. 

Now,  ladies,  I  ask — if  law  matters  you're  skill'd  in, 

Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come  before  Fielding? 

For,  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a  straw, 

May  well  be  called  picking  of  pockets  in  law ; 

And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I  now  charge  ye, 

Is,  by  Quinto  Elizabeth— death  without  clergy. 

What  justice  !  when  both  to  the  Old  Bailey  brought ; 

By  the  gods !  I'll  enjoy  it,  though  'tis  but  in  thought. 

Both  are  placed  at  the  bar  with  all  proper  decorum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel  and  nosegays  before  'em ; 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that, 

But  the  Judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat 

When  uncovered,  a  buzz  of  inquiry  runs  round  : 

"  Pray,  what  are  their  crimes  ?"      "  They've  been  pilfering  found." 

•'  But,  pray,  whom  have  they  pilfered  ?"     "  A  Doctor,  I  hear." 

"  What,  that  solemn-faced,  odd  looking  man  that  stands  near?" 

"  The  same."     "  What  a  pity !     How  does  it  surprise  one  : 

Two  handsomer  culprits  I  never  set  eyes  on  !" 

Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me,  with  dinging  and  leering, 

To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 

First,  Sir  Charles  advances,  with  phrases  well  strung : 

•'  Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young." 

"  The  younger  the  worse,"  I  return  him  again  ; 

'  It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain." 

•  But,  then,  they're  so  handsome  ;  one's  bosom  it  grieves." 

•  What  signifies  handsome  when  people  are  thieves  ?" 
"  But  where  is  your  justice?  their  cases  are  hard." 

What  signifies  justice  ?     I  want  the  reward. 
i  here's  the  parish  of  Edmonton  offers  forty  pounds  ; 
There's  the  parish  of  SL  Leonard,  Shoreditch,  offers  forty  pounds 
1' here's  the  parish  of  Tjburn  offers  forty  pounds  : 

shall  have  all  that,  if  I  convict  them." 


ANSWER  TO  AN  INVITATION.  73 

"  But  consider  their  case,  it  may  yet  be  your  own ; 
And  see  how  they  kneel :  is  your  heart  made  of  stone?" 
This  moves  ;  so,  at  last,  I  agree  to  relent, 
For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  ten  pounds  to  be  spent 

1  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this.     I  tell  you,  you  cannot  $ 

it  cuts  deep.     But  now  for  the  rest  of  the  letter  ;  and  next 

but  J  want  room — so  I  believe  I  shall  battle  the   rest   out  at 
Barton  some  day  next  week.     I  don't  value  you  all  1 

o.  a 


ON  SEEING  A  LADY  PERFORM  IN  A  CERTAIN 
CHARACTER. 

you,  bright  fair,  the  Nine  address  their  lays, 
And  tune  my  feeble  vcice  to  sing  thy  praise ; 
The  heartfelt  power  of  every  charm  divine, 
Who  can  withstand  their  all -commanding  shine  ? 
See  how  she  moves  along  with  every  grace, 
While  soul-bought  tears  steal  down  each  shining  face. 
She  speaks  !  'tis  rapture  all  and  nameless  bliss  ; 
Ye  Gods  !  what  transport  else  compared  to  this  ? 
As  when,  in  Paphian  groves,  the  Queen  of  Love 
With  fond  complffint  addressed  the  listening  Jove— 
'Twas  joy  and  endless  blisses  all  around. 
And  rocks  forgot  their  hardness  at  the  sound. 
Then  first,  at  last,  even  Jove  was  taken  in 
And  felt  her  charms,  without  disguise,  within. 


LINES  ATTRIBUTED  TO  GOLDSMITH. 

These  lines  appeared  in  the  Morning  Advertiser  of  April  yd,  1800. 

jj'EN  have  you  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 
The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display  j 
When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  meets  the  blaze  of  day ; 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet,  she  came, 
Youth's  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek : 

I  gazed,  I  sighed,  I  caught  the  tender  flame, 
Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  drooped  with  passion  weak. 


BIRDS. 

Prom  the  Latin  Lines  ofAddison  ("  Spectator?  412),  who  remarks  :— "  ftt  Inrdt 
•we  often  see  the  male  determined  in  his  courtship  by  the  single  grain  or  tincturt 
>f  a  feather,  and  never  discovering  any  charms  but  in  the  colour  of  its  species." 

[HASTE  are  their  instincts,  faithful  is  their  fire, 
No  foreign  beauty  tempts  to  false  desire ; 
The  snow-white  vesture,  and  the  glittering  crown, 
The  simple  plumage,  or  the  glossy  down, 

Prompt  not  their  love  :  the  patriot  bird  pursues 

His  well-acquainted  tints,  and  kindred  hues. 

Hence,  through  their  tribes  no  mixed  polluted  flame, 

No  monster  breed  to  mark  the  groves  with  shame  j 

But  the  chaste  blackbird  to  its  partner  true 

•Thinks  black  alone  is  beauty's  favourite  hue. 

The  nightingale,  with  mutual  passion  blest, 

Sings  to  its  mate,  and  nightly  charms  the  nest ) 

While  the  dark  owl  to  court  his  partner  flies, 

And  owns  his  offspring  in  their  yellow  eyea, 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  SOUTH  AMERICAN  ODE. 

N  all  my  Enna's  beauties  blest, 

Amidst  profusion  still  I  pine ; 
For  though  she  gives  me  up  her  breast 
Its  panting  tenant  is  not  mine, 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  77 


FROM  SCARRON. 

HITS  when  soft  love  subdues  the  heart 
With  smiling  hopes  and  chilling  fears, 

The  soul  repels  the  aid  of  art, 
And  speaks  in  moments  more  than  yean. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  VIDA. 

AY,  heavenly  Muse,  their  youthful  frays  rehearse, 
Begin,  ye  daughters  of  immortal  verse ; 
Exulting  rocks  have  owned  the  power  of  song, 
And  rivers  listened  as  they  flowed  along. 


THRENODIA    AUGUSTALIS.* 

SACRED   TO  THE   MEMORY  OF   HER   LATE  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE 

PRINCESS    DOWAGER   OF   WALES. 

SPOKEN   AND   SUNG   IN  THE  GREAT  ROOM   IN   SOHO  SQUARE, 

Thursday,  the  zoth  of  February,  1772. 
ADVERTISEMENT. 

PHE  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a  compilation 
than  a  poem.     It  was  prepared  for  the  composer  in 
little  more  than  two  days  :  and  may  therefore  rather 
be  considered  as  an  industrious  effort  of  gratitude  tha  i 
oi  genius. 

*    This  poem  was  first  printed  in  Chalmers'  edition  of  the  "English  Poets, B 
(rum  a  copy  given  by  Goldsmith  to  his  friend,  Joseph  Cradock,  Esq.,  author  • 
"?.ol>eide,"  a  tragedy. 


78  GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  justice  to  the  composer,  it  may  likewise  be  right  to  inform 
the  public,  that  the  music  was  adapted  in  a  period  of  time  equally 

SPEAKERS — Mr.  Lee  and  Mrs.  Bellamy. 
SINGERS — Mr.  Champnes,  Mr.  Dine,  and  Miss  Jameson. 

THE  MUSIC  PREPARED  AND  ADAPTED  BY  SIGNOR  VENTOi 

PART    I. 

OVERTURE — A  SOLEMN  DIRGE. 
AIR — TP.IO. 

RISE,  ye  sons  x>f  worth,  arise, 

And  waken  every  note  of  woe ! 
When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skie% 
Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below. 

CHORUS. 
When  truth  and  virtue,  &c. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 
The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power, 

The  incense  given  to  kings, 
Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 

Mere  transitory  things. 
The  base  bestow  them ;  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 
But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  joined 
An  equal  dignity  of  mind ; 
When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim ; 
When  wealth,  and  rank,  and  noble  blood, 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good  : 

Then  all  their  trophies  last — and  flattery  turns  to  fame 

Blest  spirit  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom, 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 
How  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven  ! 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 
And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born, 

Request  to  be  forgiven  ! 
Alas  !  they  never  had  thy  hate  ; 

Unmoved,  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood* 
Nor  wanted  man's  opinion  to  be  great 

In  vain,  to  charm  the  ravished  sight, 
A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send  ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 
A  thousand  sorrows  urged  thy  end  ; 
Like  some  well-fashioned  arch  thy  patience  stood, 
And  purchased  strength  from  its  increasing  lo»d» 
Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  th**^  free^ 
Affliction  still  is  virtue's  opportunity  ] 
Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 

Every  passion  hushed  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying 

In  the  hopes  of  bemg  blo?t 
Every  added  pang  ibe  puffers 

Some  increasing  good  bestows, 
And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose, 

SONG.      BY  A   MAN  —  AFFETUQSOk 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying,  &c. 

to 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

WOMAN    SPEAKER. 

Yet  ah  !  what  terrors  frowned  upon  her  fate, 

Death,  with  its  formidable  band, 
Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  care, 

Determined  took  their  atand. 
Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 

To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow  I 

But,  mischievously  slow, 
They  robbed  the  relic  and  defaced  the  shrine. 


So  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

With  unavailing  grief, 

Despairing  of  relief, 
Her  weeping  children  round 

Beheld  each  hour 

Death's  growing  power, 
And  trembled  as  he  frowned. 
As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  snore 
The  labouring  ship,  and  hear  the  tempest  roai^ 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross,— 
They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 
Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 

The  inevitable  loss. 
Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 
How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall  1 
Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage, 
But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.      BY  A  MAN.      BASSO,  STOCCATO,  SPIRITUOSOk 

When  vice  my  dart  and  scythe  supply, 
How  great  a  King  of  Terrors  I ! 
If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  I 

Fall,  round  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 
Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings, 
If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  I 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

Yet  let  that  wisdom,  urged  by  her  example, 

Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer : 

Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 

As  a  safe  inn  where  weary  travellers, 

When  they  have  journeyed  through  a  world  of  cares, 

May  put  off  life,  and  be  at  rest  for  ever. 

Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,  and  gloomy  sables, 

Mav  oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity : 


TftRENOblA  AVGUSTAL1S.  g, 

The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 

Death,  when  unmasked,  shows  me  a  friendly  face, 

And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance : 

For  as  the  line  of  life  conducts  me  on 

To  Death's  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more  fair 

Tis  Nature's  kind  retreat,  that's  always  open 

To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drained  the  cup 

Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 

In  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 

Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 

Promiscuously  recline : 
Where,  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 
The  beggar's  pouch  and  prince's  purple  lie  t 

May  every  bliss  be  thine ! 
And,  ah  !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe'er  thy  flight, 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 
May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest ! 
May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest ! 
May  peace,  that  claimed,  while  here,  thy  warmest 
May  blissful,  endless  peace  be  thine  above  1 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN — AMOROSO. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  below, 
Comforter  of  every  woe, 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky  I 
Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear ! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

Our  vows  are  heard  !    Long,  long  to  mortal  eyes, 
Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies : 
Celestial-like  her  bounty  fell, 
Where  modest  Want  and  patient  Sorrow  dwell, 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Want  pass'd  for  Merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  mod,est  were  supplied, 

Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor, — 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 

And,  oh  !  for  this,  while  sculpture  decks  thy  shrine 

And  art  exhat^ts  profusion  round, 
The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 
There  Faith  shall  come — a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay  t 
And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 
Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  thea 

AIR — CHORUS   POMPOSO. 

Let  us — let  all  the  world  agree, 
To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 


PART      II. 

OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
MAN   SPEAKER. 

FAST  by  that  shore  where  Thames'  translucent  stream 

Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 
Where,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet's  dream, 

He  forms  a  scene  beyond  Elysium  blest  j 

Where  sculptured  elegance  and  native  grace 

Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place ; 

While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 

The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green  ; 
While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 
Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 

From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene  I 


THRENOD1A  AVGUSTALIS. 


There,  sorrowing  by  the  river's  glassy  bed, 

Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complained, 
All  whom  Augusta's  bounty  fed, 

All  whom  her  clemency  sustained ; 
The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 
The  modest  matron,  clad  in  home-spun  grey, 
The  military  boy,  the  orphaned  maid, 
The  shattered  veteran  now  first  dismayed—- 
These sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

And,  as  they  view  the  towers  of  Kew, 
Call  on  their  mistress — now  no  more— and  weep* 

CHORUS — AFFETUOSO   LARGO. 

Ye  shady  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 

Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fairy  scenes, 

Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore 

That  she  who  formed  your  beauties  is  no  more« 

If  AN   SPEAKER. 

First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 

Whose  callous  hand  had  formed  the  scene, 
Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age, 

With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between : 
*  And  where,"  he  cried,  "  shall  now  my  babes  have  bread, 

Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  ? 
No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigour  fled, 

Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require  I 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  labourer  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care. 
My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so : 

Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 
Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 

And  as  my  strength  decayed,  her  bounty  grew.* 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 
The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

6-t 


GOLDSMITHS  M1SCELLANEOVS  POEMS. 

Clasped  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne, 
By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn ; 
The  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 
Augusta's  care  had  well  supplied. 
"  And,  ah !"  she  cries,  all  wobegone, 

"  What  now  remains  for  me  ? 
Oh !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair 

To  ask  for  charity  ? 
Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 
And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 

To  succour,  should  I  need. 
But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  mistress  known ; 
She  still  relieved,  nor  sought  my  praise» 

Contented  with  her  own. 
But  every  day  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song 
I'll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long." 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I'll  bless, 
My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 

And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 
My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarred,  mangled,  maimed  in  every  part, 
Lopped  of  his  limbs  in  many  a  gallant  fight, 
In  nought  entire — except  his  heart : 
Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distressed, 
At  last  the  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast. 
"  Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 
And  wild  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  billowed  main : 


THRENOD1A  AUGUST AL1S. 


But  every  danger  felt  before, 

The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind's  roar, 

Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay 

Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 

Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the 

Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave ; 

I'll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 

And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost," 

SONG.       BY   A   MAN BASSO    SPIRITUOSO. 

Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laurelled  field 

To  do  thy  memory  right : 
For  thine  and  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel, 
igain  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  the  avenging  fight 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

(n  innocence  and  youth  complaining^ 

Next  appeared  a  lovely  maid ; 
Affliction,  o'er  each  feature  reigning, 

Kindly  came  in  beauty's  aid : 
Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  soul, 
In  sweet  succession  charms  the  senses, 

While  pity  harmonised  the  whole. 
"  The  garland  of  beauty,"  'tis  thus  .she  would  say, 

"  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn  j 
I'll  not  wear  a  garland — Augusta's  away — 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return. 
But,  alas  !  that  return  I  never  shall  see  : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim, 
There  promised  a  lover  to  come — but,  ah  me ! 

Twas  death — 'twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that  came. 
But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 

I'll  strip  all  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bioom ; 
On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new- blossomed  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb." 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN — PASTORALE. 

With  garlands  of  beauty  the  Queen  of  the  May 

No  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn ; 
For  who'd  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 

When  she  is  removed,  and  shall  never  return  ? 
On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  placed, 

We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 
And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new  blossomed  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb. 

CHORUS — ALTRO   MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  placed, 
We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  tears  of  her  country  shall  water  her  tomb. 


AN    ORATORIO. 
1720, 

THE    PERSONS. 


First  Jewish  Prophet. 
Second  Jewish  Prophet. 
Israelitish  Woman. 


First  Chaldean  Priest. 
Second  Chaldean  Priest* 
Chaldean  Woman. 


Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 
SCENE—  The  Banks  of  the  River  Euphrates,  near  Babylon* 

ACT  L 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 

E  captive  tribes,  that  hourly  work  and  weep 

Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deep-* 
Suspend  your  woes  awhile,  the  task  suspend, 
And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  friend. 

Insulted,  chained  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 

Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 


AN  ORATORIO.  8? 


FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 
Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 

To  Him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 
And  every  added  weight  of  woe 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
And  though  no  temple  richly  drest, 

Nor  sacrifice  are  here — 
We'll  make  His  temple  in  our  breast, 
And  offer  up  a  tear. 

\Thcfirst  Stanza  repeated  by  the  CHORUS 

ISRAELITISH   WOMAN. 
RECITATIVE. 

That  strain  once  more  !  it  bids  remembrance  rise^ 
And  brings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes. 
Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  drest  in  flowery  pride, 
Ye  plains  where  Jordan  rolls  its  glassy  tide. 
Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crowned, 
Ye  Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, 
Those  hills  how  sweet,  that  plain  how  wondrous  fair, 
How  doubly  sweet  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there  I 

AIR. 
O  Memory,  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppressed  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yet  why  repine  ?    What  though  by  bonds  confined  ? 
Should  bonds  enslave  the  vigour  of  the  mind  ? 


88  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 

Ourselves  alone  from  idol  worship  free  ? 

Are  not  this  very  morn  those  feasts  begun 

Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun  ? 

Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 

For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 

And  should  we  mourn  ?    Should  coward  Virtue  fly, 

When  vaunting  Folly  lifts  her  head  on  high  ? 

No !  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more — 

And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

AIR. 

The  triumphs  that  op.  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end ; 
The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain, 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain  i 

As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow  ; 
But  crushed  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near— 
The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mine  ear ; 
Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale — 
Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale ; 
The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declares— 
Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 

Enter  CHALDEAN  PRIESTS,  attended. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

AIR. 

Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ, 
The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 

And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 


AN  ORATORIO.  89 


SECOND  PRIEST. 
like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  supplies, 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow ; 
The  sun  with  his  splendour  illumines  the  skies, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

AIR. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 
Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure  ; 
Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure  ; 
Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A  CHALDEAN  ATTENDANT. 
Or  rather,  Love's  delights  despising, 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising ; 
Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free, 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline? 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Ill  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  Love  nor  Wine  refusing, 
I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence,  when  joy  should  brighten  o'er  the  land, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band  ? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrung  ? 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung? 
Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along. 
The  day  demands  it ;  sing  us  Sion's  song. 
Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  tuneful  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  ? 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Chained  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 
To  want,  to  toil,  and  ev'ry  ill  consigned, 
Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 
Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain? 
No,  never !     May  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 
Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth  I 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Rebellious  slaves  !  if  soft  persuasion  fail, 
More  formidable  terrors  Chall  prevail. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Why,  let  them  come ;  one  good  remains  to  cheer— 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  know  no  other  fear. 

\Exeunt  CHAIDEANS. 
CHORUS  OF  ISRAELITES. 
Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 
On  God's  supporting  breast  reclined  ? 
Stand  fast — and  let  our  tyrants  see 
That  fortitude  is  victory.  [Exeunt, 

ACT  IL 

ISRAELITES  and  CHALDEANS,  as  befoxe. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
O  peace  of  mind,  angelic  guest, 
Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 

Dispense  thy  balmy  store ! 
Wing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the  skie^ 
Till  earth  receeding.from  our  eyes, 
Shall  vanish  as  we  soar. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

No  more !     Too  long  has  justice  been  delayed, 
The  king's  command  must  fully  be  obeyed ; 


AN  ORATORIO.  91 


Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favours  offered  at  his  hand- 
Think,  timely  think,  what  ills  remain  behind; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind, 

AIR. 

Fierce  is  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  furrowed  main, 
And  fierce  the  whirwind  rolling 
O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain. 
But  storms  that  fly 
To  rend  the  sky, 
Every  ill  presaging — 
Less  dreadful  show 
To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarch's  raging. 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 
RECITATIVE. 

Ah  me  !  What  angry  tenors  round  us  grow  t 

How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threatened  blow  I 

Ye  prophets,  skilled  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 

Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth. 

If  shrinking  thus,  when  frowning  pow'r  appears, 

I  wish  for  life  and  yield  me  to  my  fears ; 

Ah  !  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey : 

To-morrow's  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away. 

AIR. 
The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light^ 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way  ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  nighty 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS 


SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Why  this  delay  ?  At  length  for  joy  prepare, 
I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise, 
Our  monarch's  fame  the  noblest  theme  supplies  j 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre, 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 

AIR. 

See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep? 
Hence,  intruder !  we'll  pursue 
Nature — a  better  guide  than  yoifc 

AIR. 

Every  moment  as  it  flows 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes. 
Come  then,  providently  wise, 
Seize  the  debtor  ere  it  flies. 
SECOND  PRIEST 
Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-day  } 
Alas !  to-morrow's  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Bat  hush !  see  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 
The  master  prophet  grasps  his  full-tone*.'  lyre. 
Mark  where  he  sits  with  executing  a-». 
Feels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart  ; 


AN  ORATOR1Q. 

See  how  prophetic  rapture  fills  his  form, 
Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm. 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 
Prepares  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 
From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 

Conspiring  nations  come ; 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast ; 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 
The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies : 

Down  with  her  !  down— down  to  the  ground  i 
She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust^ 

Before  yon  setting  sun ; 
Serve  her  as  she  has  served  the  just  I 
'Tis  fixed— It  shall  be  doae. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

No  more  !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 
The  king  himself  shall  judge,  and  fix  their  doom. 
Unthinking  wretches  !  have  not  you  and  all 
Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  fall? 
To  yonder  gloomy  <i.:ngeon  turn  your  eyes — 
See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies, 
Deprived  of  sight  and  rankling  in  his  chain  : 
See  where  he  mourns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 
Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 
More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  comined. 

CHORUS  OF  ALL. 
Arise,  all-potent  ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  thy  people's  cause- 
Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  offer  up  unfeigned  applause. 


GOLDSMITHS  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE,  as  before. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yes,  my  companions,  Heaven's  decrees  are  passed, 
And  our  fixed  empire  shall  for  ever  last : 
In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens  woe — 
In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow  ; 
Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread, 
And  still  our  justice  crush  the  traitor's  head. 

AIR. 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  alL 
With  the  ruin  of  all, 
Then  shall  Babylon  fall; 
SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Tis  thus  that  pride  triumphant  rears  the  head—* 
A  little  while  and  all  her  power  is  fled, 
But,  ha  !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain  ? 
And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  pallid  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 
Alas !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race. 
Fall'n  is  our  King,  and  all  our  fears  are  o' 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 

AIR. 
Ye  wretches  who  by  fortune's  hate 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan- 
Come,  ponder  his  severer  fate* 
And  learn  to  bless  your  owik 


AN  ORATORIO.  95 


FIRST  PROPHET. 
Ye  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guide, 

Awhile  the  bliss  suspend ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride-- 
Lake his,  your  lives  shall  end. 
FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
His  squalid  limbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn  : 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shock  with  ghastly  glare^ 
Those  ill-becoming  rags,  that  matted  hair ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe, 
Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  ? 
How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  Lord  of  all, 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  I 

ISRAELITISH    WoMAJT. 
AIR. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray ; 
And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 

That  stop  the  hunter's  way. 
Thus  we,  O  Lord,  alike  distrest, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long  : 
Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  opprest 
And  overwhelm  the  strong. 
FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence  that  shout  ?  Good  heavens  !  Amazement  all  I 
See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
'Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round. 
The  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  along ; 
How  low  the  great,  how  feeble  are  the  strong  I 
And  now  behold  the  battlements  recline— 
0  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  Thine  1 


96  GOLDSMITH'S  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

CHORUS  OF  CAPTIVES. 
Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust  I 

Thy  vengeance  be  begun ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just. 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 

AH,  all  is  lost     The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails  f 
Save  us,  O  Lord  !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PRIESTS. 

AIR. 

Thrice  happy,  who  in  happy  hour, 
To  Heaven  their  praise  bestow, 
And  own  His  all-consuming  power, 
Before  they  feel  the  blow  1 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Now,  now's  our  time  !  ye  wretches  bold  and  blind. 
Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 
Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before, 
Your  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom,  are  no  more  I 

AIR. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn, 
Of  heaven  alike  and  man  the  foe- 
Heaven,  men,  and  all, 
Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  thee  lowest  of  the  low. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

O  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen  !— 
Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay  1 

Thy  streets  forlorn 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant,  and  vultures  prey. 


AN  ORATORIO.  9) 


SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Such  be  her  fate  !     But  hark  !  how  from  afar 
The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finished  war 
Cyrus,  our  great  restorer,  is  at  hand, 
And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 
Now,  give  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 
And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind  : 
He  comes,  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 
To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  frea. 

CHORUS  OF  YOUTHS. 
Rise  to  raptures  past  expressing, 

Sweeter  from  remembered  woes  \ 
Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing, 

Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 

CHORUS  OF  VIRGINS. 
Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 

Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train ; 
Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 

Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 

Skilled  in  every  peaceful  art ; 
Who  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 

Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 

THE  LAST  CHORUS. 
But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  our  Father,  Friend, 

Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity ; 
O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end, 

Let  us  and  all  begin,  and  end  in  Thee  ! 


98  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  KJ, 


PLAYS. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

A  COMEDY.* 

PREFACE. 

HEN  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  poets  of  the  last 
age,  and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term  genteel 
comedy  was  then  unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more 
was  desired  by  an  audience  than  nature  and  humour,  in  whatever 
walks  of  life  they  were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the 
following  scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would  be  expected  of 
him,  and  therefore  to  delineate  character  has  been  his  principal 
aim.  Those  who  know  anything  of  composition,  are  sensible, 
that  in  pursuing  humour,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  mean  ;  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it  in  the 
master  of  a  spunging-house ;  but  in  deference  to  the  public  taste, 
grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was 
retrenched  in  the  representation.  In  deference  also  to  the  judg- 
ment of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular  way,  the  scene  is 
here  restored.  The  author  submits  it  to  the  reader  in  his  closet : 
and  hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will  not  banish  humour  and 
Character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already  done  from  the  French 
theatre.  Indeed,  the  French  comedy  is  now  become  so  very 
elevated  and  sentimental,  that  it  has  not  only  banished  humour 
and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all  spectators  too. 
Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  the  public  for 
•Jie  favourable  reception  which  the  "  Good-Natured  Man"  has  met 

•  This  Comedy  was  represented  for  the  first  time  \t  Covent  Garden,  Jan. 
09*  1768.     Dr.  Johnson  spoke  highly  of  it,  and  so  did  Burke. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


99 


with ;  and  to  Mr.  Colman  in  particular,  for  his  kindness  to  it.  It 
may  not  be  improper  to  assure  any  who  shall  hereafter  write  for 
the  theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed  merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient 
passport  to  his  protection. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON/E. 
The  cast  of  the  play  as  it  was  first  acted,  1768. 


Mr.  ffoneywoo 
Croaker  -     - 
Lofty      -    - 
Sir  William  H 
•wood  -    • 
Leontine     « 
Jarvis   -     • 
Butler   •    • 
Bailiff  -    • 

M 
d 

one 

EN. 

MR.  POWELL. 
MR.  SHUTEE. 
MR.  WOODWARD. 
v- 
MR.  CLARKE. 
MR.  BENSLEY. 
MR.  DUNSTALL. 
MR.  GUSHING. 
MR.  R.  SMITH. 

Dubardieu  • 
Postboy  -    . 


-  MR.  HOLTAM. 

•  MR.  QUICK. 


WOMEN. 

Miss  Richland     •  MRS.  BULKLEY. 
Olivia    -    -    •    -  MRS.  MATTOCKS. 
Mrs,  Croaker  •    .MRS.  PITT. 
Garnet  -    ...  MRS.  GREEN. 
Landlady    ...  MRS.  WHITE. 

SCENE  —  London* 

PROLOGUE, 
WRITTEN  BY  DR.  JOHNSON  :  SPOKEN  BY  MR.  BENSLEY. 


by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind  ; 
With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab'ring  train, 
And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain  : 
Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint*  may  share, 
This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 
•Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 
Tossed  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great, 
Distressed  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 
When  one  a  borough  courts,  and  one  the  pit 
The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 
Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same; 
Disabled  both  to  combat,  or  to  fly, 
Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply. 
Unchecked,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their 
As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 
Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 
For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail  ; 


too  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
"  This  day  the  powdered  curls  and  golden  coat," 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  "  begged  a  cobbler's  vote." 
•'  This  night  our  wit,"  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
"  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies." 
The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  the  electing  tribe  t 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold; 
But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 

ACT  L 

SCENE — An  apartment  in  Young  Honeywootts  house. 
Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  HONEYWOOD  and  JARVIS. 

Sir  William.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for  this  honest 
bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is  the  best  excuse  for  every 
freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very  angry  too, 
when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so  good,  so  worthy  a  young 
gentleman  as  your  nephew,  my  master.  All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  Wil.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the  world ;  that  is  his 
fault 

Jar.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear  to  him  than  you 
are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since  he  was  a  child. 

Sir  Wil.  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me ;  or  how  can  I  be 
proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart  where  every  sharper  and  coxcomb 
finds  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jar.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good-natured ;  that  he's 
too  much  every  man's  man  ;  that  he  laughs  this  minute  with  one, 
and  cries  the  next  with  another  ;  but  whose  instructions  may  he 
thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Not  mine,  sure  ?  My  letters  to  him  during  my  em- 
ployment in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that  philosophy  which  might 
prevent,  not  defend  his  errors. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAff.  fOi 


Jar.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,  I'm  sorry  they  taught 
him  any  philosophy  at  all ;  it  has  only  served  to  spoil  him.  This 
same  philosophy  is  a  good  horse  in  the  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade 
on  a  journey.  For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention 
the  name  on't,  I'm  always  sure  he's  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  Wil.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his  philosophy,  I 
entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good  nature  arises  rather  from  his 
fears  of  offending  the  importunate,  than  his  desire  of  making  the 
deserving  happy. 

Jar.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know.  But  to  be  sure,  every- 
body has  it,  that  asks  it 

Sir  Wil.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it  I  have  been  now  tor 
some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  find  them  as 
boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jar.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or  other  for  them 
all.  He  calls  his  extravagance  generosity ;  and  his  trusting  every- 
body, universal  benevolence.  It  was  but  last  week  he  went 
security  for  a  fellow  whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called 
an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu — munificence ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he 
gave  it. 

Sir  Wil.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last  effort,  though 
with  very  little  hopes,  to  reclaim  him.  That  very  fellow  has  just 
absconded,  and  I  have  taken  up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention 
is  to  involve  him  in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  him- 
self into  real  calamity  ;  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to  clap  an 
officer  upon  him,  and  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends  will  come 
to  his  relief. 

Jar.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him  thoroughly  vexed, 
every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to  me ;  yet,  faith,  I  believe  it 
impossible.  I  have  tried  to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these 
three  years  ;  but  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear 
me  scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair-dresser. 

Sir  Wil.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however,  and  I'll  go  this 
instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execution ;  and  I  don't  despair  of 
succeeding,  as,  by  your  means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities 
ot  being  about  him  without  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is, 


,02  GOLDSMTTITS  PLA  YS. 


Jarvis,  that  any  man's  goodwill  to  others  should  produce  so  much 
neglect  of  himself  as  to  require  correction  !  Yet  we  must  touch 
his  weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are  some  faults  so 
nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice 
without  eradicating  the  virtue.  [Exit. 

Jar.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honeywood.  It  is  not 
without  reason  that  the  world  allows  thee  to  be  the  best  of  men. 
But  here  comes  his  hopeful  nephew ;  the  strange  good-natured, 
foolish,  open-hearted — And  yet  all  his  faults  are  such,  that  one 
loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my  friends  this 
morning  ? 

Jar.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeyw.  Well,  from  my  acquaintance  then? 

Jar.  (Pulling  out  bills.}  A  few  of  our  usual  cards  of  compliment, 
that's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor ;  this  from  your  mercer  ;  and 
this  from  the  little  broker  in  Crooked  Lane.  He  says  he  has  been 
ac  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeyw.  That  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  am  sure  we  were  at  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it 

far.  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeyw.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jar.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to  the  poor 
gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet  I  believe  that  would 
stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at  least 

Honeyw.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their  mouths  in  the  mean- 
time ?  Must  I  be  cruel,  because  he  happens  to  be  importunate ; 
and,  to  relieve  his  avarice,  leave  them  to  insupportable  distress? 

Jar.  'Sdeath  !  sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to  relieve  yourself — 
yourself.  Haven't  I  reason  to  be  out  of  my  senses,  when  I  see 
things  going  at  sixes  and  sevens  ? 

Honeyw.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for  being  out  of  your 
senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow  that  I'm  not  quite  unreasonable  foi 
continuing  in  mine. 

Jar.  You  are  the  only  man  alive  in  your  present  situation  that 


ttt  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  toj 

could  do  so,  —Everything  upon  the  waste.  There's  Miss  Richland 
and  her  fine  fortune  gone  already,  and  upon  the  point  of  being 
given  to  your  rival. 

Honeyw.  I'm  no  man's  rival; 

Jar.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit  you  ;  your  own 
fortune  almost  spent;  and  nothing  but  pressing  creditors,  false 
friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken  servants  that  your  kindness  has 
made  unfit  for  any  other  family. 

Honeyw.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for  being  in  mine. 

Jar.  Soh!  What  will  you  have  done  with  him  that  I  caught 
stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ?  In  the  fact ;  I  caught  him  in  the 
fact. 

Honeyw.  In  the  fact?  If  so,  I  really  think  that  we  should  pay 
him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jar.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog !  we'll  hang  him, 
if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Honeyw.  No,  Jarvis;  it's  enough  that  we  have  lost  what  he  has 
stolen  ;  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of  a  fellow-creature ! 

Jar.  Very  fine!  well,  here  was  the  footman  just  now,  to  complain 
of  the  butler :  he  says  he  does  most  work,  and  ought  to  have  most 
wages. 

Honeyw.  That's  but  just;  though  perhaps  here  comes  the  butler 
to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jar.  Ay,  it's*  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the  scullion  to  the 
privy  councillor.  If  they  have  a  bad  master,  they  keep  quarrelling 
with  him ;  if  they  have  a  good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with 
one  another. 

Enter  BUTLER,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jonathan ;  you  must 
part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that's  the  ex — ex — exposition  of 
the  matter,  sir. 

Honeyw.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what's  his  fault,  good 
Philip? 

But.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I  shall  have  my  morals 
corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

Honeyw.  Hal  hal  he  has  such  a  diverting  way-* 


104  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Jar.  Oh.  quite  amusing. 

But.  I  tind  my  wine's  a-going,  sir;  and  liquors  don't  go  without 
mouths,  sir ;  I  hate  a  drunkard,  sir. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon  that  another  time ; 
•o  go  to  bed  now. 

Jar.  To  bed !  let  him  go  to  the  deviL 

But.  Begging  your  honour's  pardon,  and  begging  your  pardon. 
Master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed,  nor  to  the  devil  neither.  I  have 
enough  to  do  to  mind  my  cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honour,  Mr. 
Croaker  is  below.  I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeyw.  "Why  didn't  you  show  him  up,  blockhead? 

But.  Show  him  up,  sir !  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  Up  or  down, 
all's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jar.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in  this  house  from 
morning  till  night  He  comes  on  the  old  affair,  I  suppose.  The 
match  between  his  son  that's  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss 
Richland,  the  young  lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Honeyw.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker,  knowing  my  friendship  foi 
the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head  that  I  can  persuade  her  to 
what  I  please. 

Jar.  Ah !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well  as  she  loves  you, 
we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that  would  set  all  things  to  rights 
again. 

Honeyw.  Love  me !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream.*  No,  no ;  her 
intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than  friendship — mere 
friendship.  That  she  is  the  most  lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed 
the  human  heart  with  desire,  I  own.  But  never  let  me  harbour  a 
thought  of  making  her  unhappy,  by  a  connection  with  one  so  un- 
worthy her  merits  as  I  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to 
serve  her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to  secure  her  happiness, 
though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jar.  Was  ever  the  like  ?   I  want  patience. 

Honeyw.  Besides,  Jarvis,  thc"gh  I  could  obtain  Miss  P.ichland's 
consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed  with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs 
Croaker,  his  wife?  who,  though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a 
little  opposite  in  their  disposition,  you  know. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  104 

Jar.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows !  the  very  reverse  of  each 
other:  she  all  laugh  and  no  joke;  he  always  complaining  and  never 
sorrowful;  a  fretful  poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour 
in  the  four-and-twenty — 

Honeyw.  Hush,  hush  !  he's  coming  up,  he'll  hear  you, 

Jar.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing-bell — 

Honeyw.  Well,  well ;  go,  do. 

Jar.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief;  a  coffin  and  cross 
bones;  a  bundle  of  rue  ;  a  sprig  of  deadly  nightshade;  a — (Honey- 
wood,  stopping  his  mouth,  at  last  pushes  him  off").  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeyw.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not  entirely  wrong. 
There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croaker's  conversation  that  quite 
depresses  me.  His  very  mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his 
appearance  has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertakers 
shop. — Mr.  Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction — 
Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honey  wood,  and  many  of 
them.  How  is  this  !  you  look  most  shockingly  to-day,  my  dear 
friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does  not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be 
sure,  if  this  weather  continues — I  say  nothing — But  God  send  wt 
be  all  better  this  day  three  months. 

Honeyw.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though,  I  own,  not  in 
your  apprehensions. 

Croak.  May  be  not     Indeed,  what  signifies  what  weather  wo 
have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours  ?  taxes  rising  and  trad 
falling.     Money  flying  out  of  the  kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming 
into  it     I  know  at  this  time  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty 
seven  Jesuits  between  Charing  Cross  and  Temple  Bar. 

Honeyw.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or  me,  I  shouW 
hope. 

Croak.  May  be  not  Indeed,  what  signifies  whom  they  pervert 
in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion  to  lose  ?  I'm  only  afraiA 
for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeyw.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies,  I  assure  you, 

Croak.  May  be  not  Indeed,  what  signifies  whether  they  be 
perverted  or  no?  the  women  in  my  time  were  good  for  something. 


06  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

I  have  seen  a  lady  dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufac- 
tures formerly.  But  now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own 
manufacture's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 

Honeyw,  But,  however  thesa  faults  may  be  practised  abroad, 
you  don't  find  them  at  home,  either  with  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or 
Miss  Richland  ? 

Croak.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonised  for  a  saint 
•vhen  she's  dead.  By-the-by,  my  dear  friend,  I  don't  find  this 
match  between  Miss  Richland  and  my  son  much  relished,  either 
by  one  side  or  t'other. 

Honeyw.  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croak.  Ah,  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your  fine  serious  advice 
to  the  young  lady  might  go  far  :  I  know  she  has  a  very  exalted 
opinion  of  your  understanding. 

Honeyw.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an  authority  that 
more  properly  belongs  to  yourself? 

Croak.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my  authority  at 
home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they  see  me  come  out  in  the 
morning  thus,  with  a  pleasant  face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry, 
that  all's  well  within.  But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  a  heart 
of  stone.  My  wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one  of  my 
privileges,  that  I'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my  own 
house.  • 

Honeyw.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side  might  perhaps 
restore  your  authority. 

Croak.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion  !  I  do  rouse  some- 
times. But  what  then  ?  always  haggling  and  haggling.  A  man  is 
tired  of  getting  the  better  before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  vic- 
tory. 

Honeyw.  It's  a  melancholy  consideration  indeed,  that  our  chief 
comforts  often  produce  our  greatest  anxieties,  and  that  an  increase 
of  our  possessions  is  but  an  inla'  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croak.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  those  were  the  very  words  of  poor 
Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week  before  he  made  away  with  himself. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood,  1  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind 
of  poor  Dick.  Ah,  there  was  merit  neglected  tor  you !  and  so  true 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  107 

a4  friend  !  we  loved  each  other  for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he  nevei 
asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single  farthing. 

Honeyw.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit  so  rash  an 
action  at  last  ? 

Croak.  I  don't  know ;  some  people  were  malicious  enough  to 
say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me :  because  we  used  to  meet 
now  and  then  and  open  our  hearts  to  each  other.  To  be  sure  I 
loved  to  hear  him  talk,  and  he  loved  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear 
Dick.  He  used  to  say  that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker;  and  so  we 
used  to  laugh — Poor  Dick.  [Going  to  cry. 

Honeyw.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croak.  Ah,  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life,  where  we  do 
nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress  and  undress,  get  up  and 
lie  down;  while  reason,  that  should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side, 
falls  as  fast  asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeyw.  To  say  the  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part  of  life  which 
is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have  past,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 

Croak.  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a  froward  child,  that 
must  be  humoured  and  coaxed  a  little  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then 
all  the  care  is  over. 

Honeyw.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the  vanity  of  our 
existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits.  We  wept  when  we  came 
into  the  world,  and  every  day  tells  us  why. 

Croak.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satisfaction  to  be 
miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine  shan't  lose  the  benefit  of 
such  fine  conversation.  I'll  just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing 
to  show  him  so  much  seriousness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself 
— And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer  on  the  in- 
crease and  progress  of  earthquakes  ?  It  will  amuse  us,  I  promise 
you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late  earthquake  is  coming  round  to 
pay  us  another  visit,  from  London  to  Lisbon,  from  Lisbon  to  the 
Canary  Islands,  from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra,  from  Palmyra 
to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constantinople  back  to  London 
again.  [Exit. 

Honeyw.  Poor  Croaker  !  his  situation  deserves  the  utmost  pity. 
I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits  these  three  days.  Sure,  to  live 


,o8  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

upon  such  terms  is  worse  than  death  itself.     And  yet,  when   ) 
consider  my  own  situation — a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion 
friends  in  distress,  the  wish  but  not  the  powei  to  serve  them — 
(pausing  and  sighing). 

Enter  BUTLER. 

But.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  Rich 
land;  shall  I  show  them  up?  but  they're  showing  up  themselves 

[Exit 
Enter  MRS.  CROAKER  and  Miss  HIGHLAND. 

Miss  Rich.  You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croak.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Honey  wood,  from 
the  auction.  There  was  the  old  deaf  dowager,  as  usual,  bidding 
like  a  fury  against  herself.  And  then  so  curious  in  antiquities  ! 
herself,  the  most  genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  col- 
lection. 

Honeyw.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness  from  friendship 
makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good-humour :  I-  know  you'll 
pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if  he  had  taken 
a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning.  Well,  if  Richland  here  can 
pardon  you,  I  must 

Miss  Rich,  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  madam,  that  I  have 
particular  reasons  for  being  disposed  to  refuse  it 

Mrs.  Croak.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear,  don't  be  so  ready 
to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Rich.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr.  Honeywood's  long 
friendship  and  mine  should  be  misunderstood. 

Honeyw.  There's  no  answering  for  others,  madam.  But  I  hope 
you'll  never  find  me  presuming  to  offer  more  than  the  most  deli- 
cate friendship  may  readily  allow. 

Miss  Rich.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a  tribute  from  you, 
than  the  most  passionate  professions  from  others. 

Honeyw.  My  own  sentiments,  madam :  friendship  is  a  disin- 
terested commerce  between  equals ;  love,  an  abject  intercourse 
between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Miss  Rich.  And  without  a  compliment  I  know  none  more 


THE  GOOD-NATVRED  MAN.  109 

disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship,  than  Mr.   Honey 
wood. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that  has  more 
friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss  Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody, 
and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise  him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss 
Biddy  Bundle,  she's  his  professed  admirer. 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed !  an  admirer ! — I  did  not  know,  sir,  you 
were  such  a  favourite  there.  But  is  she  seriously  so  handsome? 
Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked  of? 

Honeyw.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to  praise -a  lady's 
beauty,  till  she's  beginning  to  lose  it.  (Smiling,) 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it  seems. 
For,  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  improves  in  making  the 
artificial  one.  Well,  nothing  diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those 
fine,  old,  dressy  things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age  by 
everywhere  exposing  her  person ;  sticking  herself  up  in  the  front 
of  a  side  box ;  trailing  through  a  minuet  at  Almack's  ;  and  then, 
in  the  public  gardens,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  the 
painted  ruins  of  the  place, 

Honeyw.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies.  While  you, 
perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer  climates  of  youth,  there 
ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on  a  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen 
latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

"  Miss  Rich.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they  must  suffer,  before 
they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic.  I  have  seen  one  of  them  fret 
a  whole  morning  at  her  hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 

Honeyw.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried  that  face  at  last 
to  a  very  good  market  This  good-natured  town,  madam,  has 
husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  fit  every  age,  from  fifteen  to 
fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured  creature.  But 
you  know  you're  engaged  with  us  this  morning  upon  a  strolling 
party.  I  want  to  show  Olivia  the  town,  and  the  things :  1 
believe  I  shall  have  business  for  you  for  the  whole  day. 

Honeyw.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appointment  with 
Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to  put  off. 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 


Mrs.  Croak.  What !  with  my  husband  ?  then  I'm  resolved  to 
rake  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must.  You  know  I  never 
!;mgh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must  I  swear  you  have  put  me  into 
such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find  jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise 
you.  We'll  wait  for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  LEONTINE  and  OLIVIA. 

Lfont.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy.  My  dearer.t 
Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  capable  of  sharing  in  their 
amusements,  and  as  cheerful  as  they  are  ! 

Oliv.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful,  when  I  have 
so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear  of  being  detected  by 
this  family,  and  the  apprehension  of  a  censuring  world,  when  I 
must  be  detected — 

Leant.  The  world,  my  love  !  what  can  it  say  ?  At  worst  it  can 
only  say,  that,  being  compelled  by  a  mercenary  guardian  to  em 
brace  a  life  you  disliked,  you  formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with 
the  man  of  your  choice ;  that  you  confided  in  his  honour  and  took 
refuge  in  my  father's  house;  the  only  one  where  you  could  remain 
without  censure. 

Oliv.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience  and  my  indis- 
cretion; your  being  sent  to  France  to  bring  home  a  sister,  and 
instead  of  a  sister,  bringing  home — 

Leont.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One  that  I  am  con 
vinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  when  she 
comes  to  be  known. 

Oliv.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leont.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  proper  to  make  the 
discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has  been  with  her  aunt  at  Lyons, 
since  she  was  a  child,  and  you  find  every  creature  in  the  family 
takes  you  for  her. 

Oliv.  But  may  not  she  write,  may  not  her  aunt  write  ? 

Leont.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my  sister's  letter* 
are  directed  to  me. 

Oliv.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for  whom  you 
know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create  a  suspicion  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  „, 

Lfont.  There,  there's  my  master-stroke.  I  have  resolved  not  to 
refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have  consented  to  go  with  my 
lather  to  make  her  an  offer  of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Oliv.   Your  heart  and  fortune  ! 

Leant.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest  Can  Olivia  think  so 
meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my  love,  as  to  suppose  I  could  ever  hope 
tor  happiness  from  any  but  her  ?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the  force, 
nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the  delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room 
to  suspect  me.  I  only  offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart  I  am  con- 
vinced she  will  refuse;  as  I  am  confident,  that  without  knowing 
it,  her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honey  wood. 

Oliv.  Mr.  Honeywood  !  You'll  excuse  my  apprehensions !  but 
vhen  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the  balance — 

Leant.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality.  However,  by 
making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming  compliance  with  my  father's 
command  ;  and  perhaps,  upon  her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent 
to  choose  for  myself. 

Oiiv.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leon  tine,  I  own  I  shall 
?nvy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses.  I  consider  every  look 
^very  expression  of  your  esteem,  as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  foil) 
perhaps  ;  I  allow  it ;  but  it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  whicl 
has  made  an  impression  on  one's  own  heart,  may  be  powerfu 
over  that  of  another. 

Leant.   Don't,  my  life's    treasure,  don't  let  us  make  imaginan 
•vils,  when  you  know  we  have  so  many  real  ones  to  encountei 
\\  worst,  you  know,   if  Miss   Richland  should  consent,   or  m* 
Mthet  refuse  his  pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland  , 
tnd — 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Where  have  you  been,  boy?  I  have  been  seeking  you 
\1y  friend  Honeywood  here  has  been  saying  such  comfortable 
.iungs.  Ah  !  he's  an  example,  indeed.  U  acre  is  he?  I  left  him 
Mure. 

Leont.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  hear  him  too,  in  the 
next  room;  he's  preparing  to  go  out  with  the  ladies. 

.  Good  gracious  '  can  I  believe  my  eyes  or  my  ears  !    I'm 


it*  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and  stunned  with  the  loudness  ol 
his  laugh.  Was  there  ever  such  a  transformation  !  (a  laugh  behind 
the  scenes.  Croaker  mimics  it.)  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  there  it  goes  !  a  plague 
take  their  balderdash ;  yet  I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when 
my  precious  wife  was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience,  I  believe 
she  could  spread  a  horse-laugh  through  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle. 

Leont.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a  wife,  sir,  how 
can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending  one  to  me  ? 

Croak.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy,  that  Miss  Rich- 
land's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the  family ;  one  may  find  com- 
fort in  the  mone)  whatever  one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  though  in  obedience  to  your  desire  I  am  ready 
to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible  she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croak.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A  good  part  o: 
Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists  in  a  claim  upon  Govern 
ment,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Lofty,  assures  me  the  Treasury 
will  allow.  One-half  of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will. 
in  case  she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So  if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize 
half  her  fortune  ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine 
girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  if  you  will  listen  to  reason — 

Croak.  Come  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell  you,  I'm  fixed, 
determined  :  so  now  produce  your  reasons.  When  I'm  determined 
1  always  listen  to  reason,  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leont.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice  was  the  first  re- 
>|aisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croak  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual  choice.  She 
hdo  her  choice — to  marry  you  or  lose  half  her  fortune  :  and  you 
lave  your  choice — to  marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  without  an) 
fortune  at  all. 

Leont.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more  indulgence. 

Croak.  An  only  father,  air,  might  expect  more  obedience  :  be- 
sides, has  not  your  sifter  here,  that  never  disobliged  me  in  her 
life,  as  good  a  right  aj  you  ?  He's  a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and 
would  take  all  irom  you.  But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he  shan't,  101 
jrou  shall  have  your  share. 


T&8  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Oliv.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you'd  be  convinced  that  I  can  never  be 
happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune,  which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croak.  Well,  well,  it's  a  good  child,  so  say  no  more  ;  but  come 
with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something  that  will  give  us  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  I  promise  you  —  old  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker, 
lying  in  state  :  I  am  told  he  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse,  ano 
becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  o 
mine,  and  these  are  friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other 

\Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  —  Croakers  House. 
Miss  RICHLAND,  GARNET. 

Miss  Rich.  Olivia  not  his  sister  ?  Olivia  not  Leontine's  sister  ? 
You  amaze  me  ! 

Gar.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am  ;  I  had  it  all  from  his  own 
servant  :  I  can  get  anything  from  that  quarter. 

Miss  Rich.  But  how  ?     Tell  me  again,  Garnet 

Gar.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead  of  going  to 
Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who  has  been  there  with  her  aunt 
these  ten  years,  he  never  went  farther  than  Paris  :  there  he  saw 
and  fell  in  love  with  this  young  lady  —  by-the-by,  of  a  prodigious 
family. 

Miss  Rich.  And  brought  her  home  to  my  guardian  as  his 
daughter. 

Gar.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he  don't  con  sen  i 
to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying  what  a  Scotch  parson 
can  do. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived  me  —  And  so  de 
murely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too  !  Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  J 
told  her  all  my  secrets  ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  thu 
from  me  ! 

Gar.  And  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don't  much  blame  h 
she  was  loth  to  trust  one  with  her  secret:,  that  was  so  very  bad 
keeping  her  own. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the  young  gentleman,  it 

a 


1 14  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

seems,  pretends  to  make  me  serious 'proposals.  My  guardian  and 
he  are  to  be  here  presently,  to  open  the  affair  in  form.  Yoii 
know  I  am  to  lose  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Gar.  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  as  you  are,  in  love  with 
Mr.  Honeywood,  madam — 

Miss  Rich.  How  !  Idiot,  what  do  you  mean  ?  In  love  with 
Mr.  Honeywood  !  Is  this  to  provoke  me  ? 

Gar.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him  ;  I  meant  nothing 
more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be  married  ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  no  more  of  this :  as  to  my  guardian  and  his 
son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to  receive  them  :  I'm  resolved  to 
accept  their  proposal  with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by 
compliance,  and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Gar.  Delicious  !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole  fortune  to 
yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought  so  innocent  a  face  could 
cover  so  much  'cuteness. 

Miss  Rich.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  prudence  to  their 
cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have  taught  me  against  them- 
selves. 

Gar.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  employment,  for  here 
they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  CROAKER,  LEONTINE. 

Leon.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon  the  point  of 
putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  question. 

Croak.  Lord  !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears ;  you're  so  plaguy 
shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had  changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we 
must  have  the  half  or  the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what 
spirit  you  begin.  Well,  why  don't  you  ?  Eh  !  What  ?  Weil 
then — I  must,  it  seems — Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I  believe  you 
guess  at  our  business  ;  an  affair  which  my  son  here  comes  to  open, 
that  nearly  concerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be  pleased  with 
anything  that  comes  recommended  by  you. 

Croak.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  opening?  Why 
don't  you  begin,  I  say?  [To  Leontine. 

Leon.  'Tis  true,  madam — my  father,  madam — has  some  intentions 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  115 

— hem — of  explaining  an  affair — which — himself  can  best  explain, 
madam. 

Croak.  Yes,  my  dear  ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my  son  ;  it's  all  a 
request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I  will  permit  him  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

Leon.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam  :  my  father  has  a 
proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists  none  but  himself  shall  delivt-i 

Croak.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will  never  be  brougli 
on.  (Aside).  In  short,  madam,  you  see  before  you  one  that  love-, 
you  ;  one  whose  whole  happiness  is  all  in  you. 

Miss  Rich.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your  regard,  sir ;  and  1 
hope  you  can  have  none  of  my  duty. 

Croak.  That's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting  ;  my  love  !  No 
no,  another  guess  lover  than  I :  there  he  stands,  madam,  his  ver\ 
looks  declare  the  force  of  his  passion — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog  : 
(Aside).  But  then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping 
speaking  soliloquies  and  blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy,  am: 
sometimes  absent — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now ;  or  such  a  declaration 
would  have  come  most  properly  from  himself. 

Croak.  Himself!  Madam,  he  would  die  before  he  could  make 
such  a  confession ;  and  if  he  had  not  a  channel  for  his  passior 
through  me,  it  would  ere  now  have  drowned  his  understand- 
ing. 

Miss  Rich.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attractions  in  modest 
diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A  silent  address  is  the 
genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croak.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other  language ; 
silence  is  become  his  mother  tongue. 

Miss  Rich.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it  speaks  very  power- 
fully in  his  favour.  And  yet  I  shall  be  thought  too  forward  in 
making  such  a  confession ;  shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leont.  Confusion!  my  reserve  will  undo  me.  But,  if  modesty 
attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust  her.  I'll  try.  (Aside.}  Don'i 
imagine  from  my  silence,  iradam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  ui 
the  honour  and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  madam,  telis 

8—2 


j  16  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  *& 

me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to  you — he 
admires  you:  I  adore  you;  and  when  we  come  together,  upon 
my  soul  I  belisve  we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  St 
James's. 

Miss  Rich,  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you  thought  as  you  speak, 
sir 

Leant.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your  dear  self  I  swear. 
Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory?  ask  cowards  if  they  covet 
safety 

Croak.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it 

Leant.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health  ?  ask  misers  if  they 
love  money  ?  ask 

Croak.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense  ?  What's  come  over 
the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking,  when  there's  not  a  soul  to  give 
you  an  answer  ?  If  you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's 
consent  to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Rich.  Why  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon  ardour  almost 
compels  me — forces  me  to  comply. — And  yet  I'm  afraid  he'll 
despise  a  conquest  gained  with  too  much  ease ;  won't  you,  Mr. 
Leontine  ? 

Leant.  Confusion  !  (Aside.}  Oh,  by  no  means,  madam,  by  no 
means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked  of  force.  There  is  nothing 
I  would  avoid  so  much  as  compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind. 
No,  madam,  I  will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
refuse. 

Croak.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  liberty.  It's  a 
match.  You  see  she  says  nothing.  Silence  gives  consent 

Leant.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider,  sir,  the  cruelty 
of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croak.  But  I  say  there's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you  know,  block 
head,  that  girls  have  always  a  round-about  way  of  saying  yes 
before  company  ?  So  get  you  both  gone  together  into  the  next 
room,  and  hang  him  that  interrupts  the  tender  explanation.  Get 
you  gone,  I  say ;  I'll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leant.  But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist — 

Croak.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to  insist  upon 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  117 

knocking  you  down.     Stupid  whelp  !    But  I  don't  wonder :  the 
boy  takes  entirely  after  his  mother. 

\Exeunt  Miss  HIGHLAND  and  LEONTINE. 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  something,  my  dear,  that 
I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croak.  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croak.  A  letter;  and  as  I  knew  the  hand,  I  ventured  to 
open  it 

Croak.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking  open  my  letters 
should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Pooh  !  it's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons,  and  contains 
good  news ;  read  it. 

Croak.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here  1  That  sister  of  mine 
has  some  good  qualities,  but  I  could  never  teach  her  to  fold  a 
letter. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Fold  a  fiddlestick  !    Read  what  it  contains. 

CROAKER  (reading). 

"  DEAR  NICK, — An  English  gentleman,  of  large  fortune,  has 
for  some  time  made  private,  though  honourable,  proposals  to  your 
daughter  Olivia.  They  love  each  other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she 
has  consented,  without  letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown 
his  addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  come  every  day,  your 
own  good  sense,  his  large  fortune,  and  family  considerations,  wiH 
induce  you  to  forgive  her. 

"Yours  ever, 

"  RACHAEL  CROAKER." 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of  large  for- 
tune !     This  is  good  news,  indeed.     My  heart  never  foretold  me 
of  this.     And  yet  how  slily  the  little  baggage  has  carried  it  since 
»  she  came  home ;  not  a  word  on't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world. 
Yet  I  thought  I  saw  something  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their  amour,  they 

•han't  conceal  their  wedding ;  that  shall  be  public,  I  am  resolved. 

Croak.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the  most  foolish  part 


1 18  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get  this  woman  to  think  of  the 
most  serious  part  of  the  nuptial  engagement 

Mrs.  Croak.  What !  would  you  have  me  think  of  their  funeral  ? 
But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you  owe  more  to  me  than  you 
care  to  confess  ? — Would  you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr. 
Lofty,  who  has  undertaken  Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  Treasury, 
but  for  me  ?  Who  was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaintance  at  Lady 
Shabbaroon's  rout?  Who  got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest? 
Is  not  a  back-stairs  favourite,  one  that  can  do  what  he  pleases 
with  those  that  do  what  they  please  !  Is  he  not  an  acquaintance 
that  all  your  groaning  and  lamentation  could  never  have  got  us  ? 

Croak.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you.  And  yet 
what  amazes  me  is,  that  while  he  is  giving  away  places  to  all  the 
>\  orld,  he  can't  get  one  for  himself. 

Mrs.  Croak.  That  perhaps  may  be  owing  to  his  nicety.  Great 
men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

Enter  FRENCH  SERVANT. 

Sent.  An  express  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He  vil  be  vait  upon 
your  honours  instramment  He  be  only  giving  four  five  in- 
struction, read  two  tree  memorial,  call  upon  von  ambassadeur. 
He  vil  be  vid  you  in  one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croak.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an  extensive  de- 
partment !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master  know  that  we  are  ex- 
tremely honoured  by  this  honour.  Was  there  anything  ever  in  a 
higher  style  of  breeding?  All  messages  among  the  great  are  now 
done  by  express. 

Croak.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things  with  more  solem 
r.ity,  or  claims  more  respect,  than  he.  But  he's  in  the  right  on't 
In  our  bad  world,  respect  is  given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ;  you  were  never 
in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life.  Let  us  now  think  of  receiving 
him  with  proper  respect  (a  loud  rapping  at  the  door),  and  there  her 
is,  by  the  thundering  rap. 

Croak.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  !  as  close  upon  the  heels  of  his 
own  express,  as  an  indorsement  upon  the  back  of  a  bill.  Well, 
I'll  leave  you  to  receive  him,  whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  ng 

for  intending  to  steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt's  con- 
sent. I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or  she  too  may  begin  to  despise 
my  authority.  [£xi/. 

Enter  LOFTY,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Loft.  "  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that  teasing  creature 
the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at  home.  Damme,  I'll  be  pack- 
hoi  se  to  none  of  them."  My  dear  madam,  I  have  just  snatched  a 
moment — '  And  if  the  expresses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them 
be  sent  off;  they're  of  importance,' — madam,  I  ask  a  thousand 
pardons. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  this  honour — 

Loft.  "  And,  Dubardieu !  if  the  person  calls  about  the  commission, 
let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out  As  for  Lord  Cumbercourt's 
stale  request,  it  can  keep  cold  :  you  understand  me," — Madam,  I 
is>,  ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  this  honour — 

'jft.  "  And  Dubardieu !  if  the  man  comes  from  the  Cornish 
borough,  you  must  do  him,  I  say." — Madam,"!  ask  ten  thousand 
pardons.  — "  And  if  the  Russian  ambassador  calls ;  but  he  will 
scarce  call  to-day,  I  believe." — And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  go 
time  to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honour  of  being  p'.r 
mitted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient  humble  servant 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honour  are  all  mine ;  and 
yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I  detain  you. 

Loft.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are  to  be  attenr^d. 
Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charmingly  devoted !  Sincerely, 
don't  you  pity  us  poor  creatures  in  affairs  ?  Thus  it  is  eternally  \ 
solicited  for  places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courted 
everywhere.  I  know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Excuse  me,  sir.  "  Toils  of  empires  pleasures  are," 
is  Waller  says. 

Loft.  Waller,  Waller,  is  he  of  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.   The  modern  poet  of  that  name,  sir 

Loft.  Oh,  a  modern!  we  men  of  business  despise  the  moderns; 
and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time  to  read  them.  Poetry 
;.-  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our  wives  and  daughters ;  but  not  for 


1 20  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

is.  Why  now,  here  I  stand  that  know  nothing  of  books.  I  say, 
madam,  I  know  nothing  of  books  :  and  yet,  I  believe  upon  land- 
carriage  fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jag-hire,  I  can  talk  my  two 
hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croak.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Lofty's  eminence 
in  every  capacity. 

Loft.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush;  I'm  nothing 
nothing,  nothing  in  the  world ;  a  mere  obscure  gentleman.  To  be 
sure,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  present  ministers  are  pleased  to 
represent  me  as  a  formidable  man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to 
bespatter  me  at  all  their  little  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul,  I 
wonder  what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so !  Measures,  not  men, 
have  always  been  my  mark !  and  I  vow,  by  all  that's  honourable, 
nny  resentment  has  never  done  the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner 
:>f  harm — that  is  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croak.  What  importance,  and  yet  what  modesty  I 

Loft.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there  I  own,  I'm  ac- 
cessible to  praise :  modesty  is  my  foible :  it  was  so,  the  Duke  of 
llrentford  used  to  say  of  me.  "  I  love  Jack  Lofty,"  he  used  to  say : 
11  no  man  has  a  finer  knowledge  of  things  ;  quite  a  man  of  informa- 
tion ;  and  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he's  pro- 
digious, he  scouts  them ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their  faults ;  too 
nuch  modesty  is  his,"  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  yet  I  dare  say,  you  don't  want  assurance  when 
r/ou  come  to  solicit  for  your  friends. 

Loft.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I'm  in  bronze.  Apropos !  I  have  just 
been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to  a  certain  personage ;  we 
must  name  no  names.  When  I  ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam 
^Io,  no,  I  take  my  friend  by  the  button.  A  fine  girl,  sir ;  great 
io slice  in  her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest.  Business 
aiust  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary,  her  business 
must  be  done,  sir.  That's  my  way,  madam. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Bless  me !  you  said  all  this  to  the  Secretary  of 
'Itate,  did  you  ? 

Loft.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I  ?  Well,  curse  it,  since 
you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny  it.  It  was  to  the  Secretary. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  I2l 

Mrs.  Croak.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head  at  once,  no; 
applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr.  Honeywood  would  have 
had  us.  • 

Loft.  Honeywood  !  he !  he  !  He  was,  indeed,  a  fine  solicitor. 
I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  happened  to  him? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Poor  dear  man  !  no  accident,  I  hope? 

Loft.   Undone,  madam,  that's  all.    His  creditors  have  taken  him 
•  custody.  .  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house. 

.Mrs.  Croak.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  !  How  ?  At  this  ven 
nine?  I'm  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Loft.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was  immense!) 
-uo.l-natured.  But  then  I  could  never  find  that  he  had  anything 
•n  him. 

Mrs.  Croak.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  excessively  harmless 
;•->  :ie,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull.  For  my  part,  I  always  cor,. 
cc.iled  my  opinion. 

Loft.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam ;  the  man  was  dull,  dull  a- 
:h.-  last  new  comedy  ;  a  poor  impracticable  creature.   I  tried  on< 
>r  twice  to  know  if  he  was  fit  for  business  ;  but  he  had  scan . 
uients  to  be  groom-porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs.  Croak.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland  think  of  hin, 
For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults  she  loves  him. 

Loft.  Loves  him  !  does  she  ?  You  should  cure  her  of  that  by 
ill  means.  Let  me  see  ;  what  if  she  were  sent  to  him  this  instant 
n  his  present  doleful  situation  ?  My  life  for  it,  that  works  her 
ure.  Distress  is  a  perfect  antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join  her 

the  next  room  ?    Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune. 
must  not  be  thrown  away.    Upon  my  honour,  madam,  I -have 
for  Miss  Richland  ;  and  rather  than  she  should  be  thrown 
I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  myself. 

\Exxunt 
Enter  OLIVIA  and  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every  reason  to«expeci 
Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did  everything  in  my  power  to  de 
serve  it.  Her  indelicacy  surprises  me. 

Oliv.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  indelicate  in  being  sen 


GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  YS. 


sible  of  your  merit     If  so,  I  fear  I  shall  be  the  most  guilty  thing 
alive. 

Leant.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same  attention  I  used 
to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  practised  to  lessen  it  with  her. 
What  more  could  I  do  ? 

Oliv.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be  done.  We  have 
both  dissembled  too  long.  —  I  have  always  been  ashamed  —  I  am 
now  quite  weary  of  it  Sure  I  could  never  have  undergone  so 
much  for  any  other  but  you. 

Leont.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to  your  kindest 
compliance.  Though  our  friends  should  totally  forsake  us,  Olivia, 
.ve  can  draw  upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Oliv.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of  humble  happi 
aess,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power?  I  may  be  the  favourite  of 
your  father,  it  is  true  ;  but  can  it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present 
kindness  to  a  supposed  child  will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver? 

Leont.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will.  As  his  attach- 
ments are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His  own  marriage  was  a 
private  one,  as  ours  may  be.  Besides,  I  have  sounded  him  alreadj 
at  a  distance,  and  find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  cur  wish.  Nay, 
by  an  expression  or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am  induced  to 
think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Oliv.  Indeed  1  Bat  that  would  be  a  happiness  too  great  to  be 
expected. 

Leont.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have  power  over  him  ; 
and  I'm  persuaded,  if  you  informed  him  of  our  situation,  that  he 
would  be  disposed  to  pardon  it 

Oliv.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine,  from  your  last 
scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which  you  find  has  succeeded  most 
wretchedly. 

Leont.  And  that's  the  best  reason  for  trying  another. 

Oliv.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit 

Leont.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way.  Now,  my  dearest 
Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire  within  hearing,  to  come  in  at 
a  proper  time,  either  to  share  your  danger,  or  confirm  your  victory 

[Exit. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  1*3 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her ;  and  yet  not  too  easily  neither. 
It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  decorums  of  resentment  a  little, 
if  it  be  only  to  impress  her  with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Oliv.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  1 — Might  I  presume,  sir, 
if  I  interrupt  you 

Croak.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it  is  not  a  little 
thing  that  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets  over  little  things. 

Oliv.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I'm  sensible  how  ill  1  deserve  this 
partiality  j  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do 
to  gain  it 

Croak.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you  little  hussy, 
you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  yours,  on  my  conscience,  I 
could  be  brought  to  forgive  anything,  unless  it  were  a  very  great 
offence  indeed. 

Oliv.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — When  you  know  my  guilt — 
Ves,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I  feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the 
confession. 

Croak.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain,  you  may  spare 
yourself  the  trouble  j  for  I  know  every  syllable  of  the  matter  before 
you  begin. 

Oliv.  Indeed !  then  I'm  undone. 

Croak.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match  without  letting 
me  know  it,  did  you  ?  But  I'm  not  worth  being  consulted,  I 
suppose,  when  there's  to  be  a  marriage  in  my  own  family.  No, 
I'm  to  have  no  hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  children.  No,  I'm 
nobody.  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber ;  a  piece  of 
cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner. 

Oliv.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  authority  could 
have  induced  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croak.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more;  Fm  as  little  minded 
as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck  up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth 
till  there  comes  a  thaw — It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  \Aside. 

Oliv.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and  despaired  of  par- 
don, even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it  But  your  severity  shall  never 
abate  my  affection,  as  my  punishment  is  but  justice; 


S24  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


Croak.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair  neither,  Livy.  We  ought 
to  hope  all  for  the  best 

Oliv.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir  ?  Can  I  ever  expect 
to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long  deceived  me. 

Croak.  Why,  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you  now,  for  I  forgive 
you  this  very  moment;  I  forgive  you  all !  and  now  you  are  indeed 
my  daughter. 

Oliv.  O  transport!  this  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Croak.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  children.  We  have 
been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and  we  can't  expect  boys  and 
girls  to  be  old  before  their  time. 

Oliv.  What  generosity!  but  can  you  forget  the  many  falsehoods, 
the  dissimulation 

Croak.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin  you ;  but  where's 
the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  a  husband  ?  My  wife  and  I  had 
never  been  married,  if  we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Oliv.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put  such  generosity  to 
a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the  partner  of  my  offence  and  folly, 
from  his  native  honour,  and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I 

can  answer  for  him  that 

Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself.  (Kneeling.)  Thus, 
sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for  this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes, 
sir,  this  even  exceeds  all  your  former  tenderness.  I  now  can  boast 
the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to  this, 
was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croak.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that  fine  tragedy 
face,  and  flourishing  manner  ?  I  don't  know  what  we  have  to  do 
with  your  gratitude  upon  this  occasion. 

Leont.  How,  sir  !  Is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  when  so  much 
obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure  of  being  grateful  ?  of 
adding  my  thanks  to  my  Olivia's  ?  of  sharing  in  the  transports  that 
you  have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croak.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough  witnout  your  coming 
in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  the 
boy  all  this  day  ;  he  has  got  into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner  aU 
Ihis  morning  ! 


THK  GOOD-NATURED  HAN. 


Leont.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the  benefit,  is  it  not 
my  duty  to  show  my  joy  ?  is  the  being  admitted  to  your  favour  so 
Alight  an  obligation  ?  is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my  Olivia  so 
;mall  a  blessing  ? 

Croak.  Marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  his  own 
-ister  !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his  senses.  His  own  sister  ! 

Leont.  My  sister  ! 

Oliv.  Sister  !     How  have  I  been  mistaken  1  [Aside. 

Leont.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this,  I  find.  \Aside. 

Croak.  What  does  the  booby  mean  ?  or  has  he  any  meaning  ? 
Ch,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead  you  ? 

Leont.  Mean,  sir  —  why,  sir  —  only,  when  my  sister  is  to  be  married, 
hat  I  have  the  pleasure  of  marrying  her,  sir,  that  is,  of  giving  her 
:  way,  sir  —  I  have  made  a  point  of  it 

Croak.  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Give  her  away.  You  have  made  a  point 
<f  it.  Then  you  had  as  good  make  a  point  of  first  giving  away 
.  uurself,  as  I'm  going  to  prepare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss 
Ivichland  this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing  ! 
\'liy,  what's  the  matter  now?  I  thought  I  had  made  you  at  least 
is  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Oliv.  Oh  !  yes,  sir  ;  very  happy. 

Croak.  Do  you  foresee  anything,  child  ?  You  look  as  if  you  did. 
I  think  if  anything  was  to  be  foreseen,  I  have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as 
iiioiher;  and  yet  I  foresee  nothing.  [Exit. 

LEONTINE  snd  OLIVIA. 

Oliv.  What  can  it  mean  ? 

Leont.  He  knows  somei:>;ng,  and  yet  for  my  life  I  can't  tell 
vhat. 

Oliv.  It  can't  be  the  connection  between  us,  I'm  pretty  certain. 

Leont.  Whatever  it  be.  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved  to  put  it  out  of 
fortune's  po-ver  to  repeat  our  mortification.  I'll  haste  and  prepare 
lor  on*-  jmirney  to  Scotland  this  very  evening.  My  friend  Honey- 
wcK'd  V<s  promised  me  his  advice  anu  assistance.  I'll  go  to  him 
and  repr»«?o  our  distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom  ;  and  I  know  so 
miic'i  of  his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can't  relieve  our  uneasiness, 
i:e  will  at  least  share  them.  [Exeunt. 


126  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  YS. 

ACT  IIL 

SCENE  —  Young  Honey-woof t  Houst* 
BAILIFF,  HONEYWOOD,  FOLLOWER. 

Bailiff.  "Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men  as  you  in  rm 
time;  no  disparagement  of  you  neither  :  men  that  would  go  fort\ 
guineas  on  a  game  of  -cribbage.  I  challenge  the  town  to  show  E 
man  in  more  genteeler  practice  than  mysel£ 

Honeywood.  Without  ail  question,  Mr .  I  forget  your  name 

sir? 

Bail.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew  ?  he  1  he !  he ! 

Hontyw.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  ? 

Bail.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeyw.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Bail.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you.  He  !  he  f  he !  A  jok< 
breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeyw.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a  secret,  perhaps 

Bail.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm  ashamed  to 
tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If  you  can  show  cause,  as  vviiy,  upon 
a  special  capus,  that  I  should  prove  my  name — But,  come,  Timothx 
Twitch  is  my  name.  And  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have  yoi 
to  say  to  that  ? 

Honeyw.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch,  but  that  1 
have  a  favour  to  ask,  that's  all 

Bail.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than  granted,  as  we  sa\ 
among  us  that  practise  the  law.  I  have  taken  an  oath  against 
granting  favours.  Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeyw.  But  my  request  will  come  recommended  in  so  strom 
a  manner,  that,  I  believe,  you'll  have  no  scruple  (pulling  out  hi> 
purse).  The  thing  is  only  this  :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  dis 
charge  this  trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would 
not  have  the  affair  known  for  the  world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keep- 
ing you,  and  your  good  friend  here,  about  me,  till  the  debt  is  dis 
charged  ;  for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bail.  Oh!  that's  another  maxim,  and  altogether  within  my  oath 
For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to  get  anything  by  a  thing,  there'i 
no  reason  why  all  things  should  not  be  done  in  civility. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  123 

Honeyw.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr.  Twitch;  and  yours 
is  a  necessary  one.  (Gives  him  money.) 

Bail.  Oh!  your  honour;  I  hope  your  honour  takes  nothing 
amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty  in  so  doing.  I'm 
sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentle- 
man, ill  usage.  If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have 
taken  money  not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeyw.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bail.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to  see  a  gentleman 
with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  have  a  tender 
heart  myself.  If  all  that  I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together, 
it  would  make  a — but  no  matter  for  that 

Honeyw.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch.  The  ingratitude  of 
the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of  the  conscious  happiness  of  having 
acted  with  humanity  ourselves. 

Bail.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better  than  gold.  I  love 
humanity.  People  may  say  that  we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity; 
but  I'll  show  you  my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  follower 
here,  little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four  children ;  a  guinea  or  two 
would  be  more  to  him  than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I 
can't  show  him  any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you'll  do  it 
for  me. 

Honeyw.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a  most  powerful 
recommendation.  (Giving  money  to  the  follower?) 

Bail.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you  know  what  to  do  with 
your  money.  But,  to  business :  we  are  to  be  with  you  here  as  your 
friends,  I  suppose.  But  set  in  case  company  comes. — Little  Flani- 
gan here,  to  be  sure,  has  a  good  face  ;  a  very  good  face ;  but  then, 
he  is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  Not 
well  in  clothes.  Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Honeyw.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without  delay. 
Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeyw.  How  unlucky  1  Detain  her  a  moment.  We  must  im- 
prove my  good  friend  little  Mr.  Flanigan's  appearance  first.  Here, 
let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit  of  my  clothes — quick — the  brown  and 
filver — Do  vou  hear  ? 


1 28  GOL  DSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Ser.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the  begging  gentleman  that 
makes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good  as  new. 

Honeyw.  The  white  and  gold,  then. 

Ser.  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  because  it  was 
_:ood  for  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand,  then.  The  blue 
ind  gold,  then.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan  will  look  best  in  blue. 

[Exit  FLANIGAN. 

Bail.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look  well  in  anything. 
Ah,  if  your  honour  knew  that  bit  of  flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  be 
perfectly  in  love  with  him.  There's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four 
counties  after  a  shy-cock  than  he  :  scents  like  a  hound ;  sticks  like 
i  weasel.  He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black  Queen 
•>f  Morocco,  when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  ( Re-enter  FLANIGAN.) 
Keh  !  ecod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  I  don't  care  if  I  have  a 
;uit  from  the  same  place  for  myself. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming.  Dear  Mr.  Twitch, 
I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend  directions  not  to  speak.  As  for  your- 
self, I  know  you  will  say  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bail.  Never  you  fear  me ;  I'll  show  the  lady  that  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another.  One  man  has  one  way 
)t'  talking,  and  another  man  has  another,  that's  all  the  difference 
between  them. 

Enter  Miss  RICHLAND  and  her  MAID. 

Miss  Rich.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this  visit  But,  you 
-. low,  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  choosing  my  little  library. 

Honeyw.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary;  as  it  was  I  that 
vvas  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs  here.  Two  of  my  very 
,;ood  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and  Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit 
without  ceremony. 

Miss  Rich.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be  ?  I  fear  it  is  as 
i  .vas  informed.  It  must  be  so.  [Aside. 

Bail.  (After  a  pause.}  Pretty  weather;  very  pretty  weather  for 
he  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Fol.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

Honeyw.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites  among  the  ladies. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM  I«9 

My  friends,  madam,  have  been  upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  1 
assure  you.  The  fair  should  in  some  measure  recompense  tru 
toils  of  the  brave. 

Miss  Rich.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every  favour.  The 
gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I  presume,  sir  ? 

ffoneyw.  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasionally  serve  in  the  fleet 
iiadam.  A  dangerous  service  ! 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has  often  surprised  <n«. 
hat  while  we  have  had  so  many  instances  of  bravery  there,  we 
uive  had  so  few  of  wit  at  home  to  praise  it 

ffoneyw.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have  not  written  as 
>;ir  soldiers  have  fought ;  but  they  have  done  all  they  could,  and 
.  lawke  or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a  fine  subject  spoiled 
)y  a  dull  writer. 

Honeyw.  We  should  not  'be  so  severe  against  dull  writers, 
nadam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest  writer  exceeds  the  most 
.-igid  French  critic  who  presumes  to  despise  him. 

Fol.  Damn  the  French,  the  parlez  vous,  and  all  that  belongs  to 
hem. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir ! 

Honeyw.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A  true  English 
>fficer,  madam  !  he's  not  contented  with  beating  the  French,  but 
}e  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Rich.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not  convince  me 
mt  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary.  It  was  our  first  adopt- 
ng  the  severity  of  French  taste  that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to 
;aste  us. 

Bail.  Taste  us  !     By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  devour  us.     Give 

monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be  d d  but  they  come  in  for  a 

bellyful. 

Miss  Rich.  Very  extraordinary,  this  ! 

Fol.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread  rising?  the  parlez 
vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes  the  mutton  fivepencea  pound? 
the  parlez  vous  that  eat  it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  threepence- 
a  pot  ? 

f 


iy>  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Hmeyw.  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all  will  be  out.  (Aside) 
Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word,  and  quite  to  the  pur- 
.pose.  They  draw  a  parallel,  madam,  between  the  mental  tastt 
and  that  of  our  senses.  We  are  injured  as  much  by  the  French 
severity  in  the  one,  as  by  the  French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That's 
their  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the  parallel,  yet  I'll 
own,  that  we  should  sometimes  pardon  books,  as  we  do  our 
friends,  that  have  now  and  then  agreeable  absurdities  to  recom- 
mend them. 

Bail.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  king  only  can  pardon,  as  the  law 
says  ;  for,  set  in  case 

Honeyw.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir,  I  see  the  whole  drift  of 
your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our  presuming  to  pardon  any  work, 
is  arrogating  a  power  that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  powei 
to  condemn,  what  writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bail.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus  can  set  him  free 
at  any  time :  for  set  in  case 

Honeyw.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint.  If,  madam,  as 
my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so  careful  of  a  gentleman's 
person,  sure  we  ought  to  be  equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his 
fame. 

Fol.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabbed,  you  know 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever,  you  could  not 
improve  the  last  observation.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  it  con- 
clusive. 

Bail.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap 

Honeyw.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  instance  to  be  positiv 
For  where  is  the  necessity  of  censuring  works  without  genius, 
which  must  shortly  sink  of  themselves  ?  what  is  it,  but  aiming  an 
unnecessary  blow  against  a  victim  already  under  the  hands  of 
justice  ? 

Bail.  Justice  !  Oh,  by  the  elevens  !  if  you  talk  about  justice,  I 
think  1  am  at  home  there  :  for,  in  a  course  of  law — 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what  you'd  be  at  per 
fectly ;  and  I  believe  the  ladv  must  be  sensible  of  the  art  with 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  131 

which  it  is  introduced.     I  suppose  you  perceive  the  meaning, 
madam,  of  his  course  of  law. 

Miss  Rich.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not  I  perceive  only  that  you 
answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has  finished,  and  the  other  before 
he  has  well  begun. 

Bail.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  will  make  the 
matter  out  This  here  question  is  about  severity,  and  justice,  and 
pardon,  and  the  like  of  they.  Now  to  explain  the  thing 

Hontyw.  O  1  curse  your  explanations.  [Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak  with  you  upon 
earnest  business. 

Honeyw.  That's  lucky.  (Aside).  Dear  madam,  you'll  excuse  me 
and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few  minutes.  There  are  books, 
madam,  to  amuse  you.  Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no 
ceremony  with  such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I 
must  But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bail,  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Fol.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and  behind. 

[Exeunt  HONEYWOOD,  BAILIFF,  and  FOLLOWER. 

Miss  Rich.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet  ? 

Garn.  Mean,  madam  1  why,  what  should  it  mean,  but  what 
Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see  ?  These  people  he  calls  officers 
are  officers  sure  enough ;  sheriff's  officers ;  bailiffs,  madam. 

Miss  Rich.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though  his  perplexities 
are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I  own  there's  something  very 
ridiculous  in  them,  and  a  just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Garn.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder,  madam,  that  the 
lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts  and  set  him  free,  has 
not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought  at  least  to  have  been  here 
before  now.  But  lawyers  are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man  into 
troubles  than  out  of  them. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Sir  WiL  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  setting  him  free,  I 
own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has  totally  unhinged  my  schemes 


,3*  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  find  that,  among  a 
number  of  worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition  of 
real  value  ;  for  there  must  be  some  softer  passion  on  her  side  that 
prompts  this  generosity.  Ha!  here  before  me?  I'll  endeavour 
to  sound  her  affections. — Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that  have 
had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman  of  this  house,  I  hope 
you'll  excuse  me  if,  before  I  enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see  your- 
self. 

Miss  Rich,  The  precaution  was  very  unnecessary,  sir.  I  sup- 
pose your  wants  were  only  such  as  my  agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  Wil.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also  willing  you  should  be 
fully  apprised  of  the  character  of  the  gentleman  you  intended  to 
serve. 

Miss  Rich.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill  grace  from  you.  To 
censure  it  after  what  you  have  done,  would  look  like  malice ;  and 
to  speak  favourably  of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be 
impeaching  your  own.  And,  sure,  his  tenderness,  his  humanity, 
his  universal  friendship,  may  atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  Wil.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is  exerted  in  too  wide 
a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless.  Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water, 
disappears  when  diffused  too  widely.  They  who  pretend  most  to 
this  universal  benevolence  are  either  deceivers  or  dupes, — men 
who  desire  to  cover  their  private  ill  nature  by  a  pretended  regard 
for  all ;  or  men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into  false  feelings,  are 
more  earnest  in  pursuit  of  splendid  than  of  useful  virtues. 

Miss  Rich.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one,  who  has  probably 
been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others,  so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  Wil.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by  folly,  madam,  you  see 
I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing  by  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unnecessary.  I  always 
suspect  those  services  which  are  denied  where  they  are  wanted,  and 
offered,  perhaps,  in  hopes  of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have 
been  given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  Wil.  Thou  amiable  woman  !  I  can  no  longer  contain  the 
expressions  of  my  gratitude — my  pleasure.  You  see  before  you  one 
who  has  been  equally  careful  of  his  interest ;  one,  who  has  for  some 


THE  GOOD-NA  TURED  MAN.  133 

time  been  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  only  punished 
in  hones  to  reclaim  him — his  uncle. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  William  Honeywood  !  you  amaze  me.  How 
shall  I  conceal  my  confusion  ?  I  fear,  sir,  you'll  think  I  have  been 
too  forward  in  my  services.  I  confess  I 

Sir  Wil.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam.  I  only  find  myself 
unable  io  repay  the  obligation.  And  yet,  I  have  been  trying  my 
interest  of  late  to  serve  you.  Having  learned,  madam,  that  you 
had  some  demands  upon  Government,  I  have,  though  unasked, 
been  youi  solicitor  there. 

Miss  Ritii.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your  intentions.  But 
my  guardian  haj  employed  another  gentleman,  who  assures  him  of 
success. 

Sir  Wil.  Who"*  the  important  little  man  that  visits  here?  Trust 
me,  madam,  he's  quite  contemptible  among  men  in  power,  and 
utterly  unable  to  iwrvc  you.  Mr.  Lefty's  promises  are  much  better 
known  to  people  of  fashion  than  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Rich.  How  bi.v  e  we  been  deceived !  As  sure  as  can  be  here 
he  comes. 

Sir  Wil.  Does  he?  Remember  I'm  to  continue  unknown.  My 
return  to  England  has  not  yet  been  made  public.  With  what  im- 
pudence he  enters  I 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Loft.  Let  the  chariot — let  my  chariot  drive  off;  I'll  visit  to  his 
Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland  here  before  me !  Punctual,  as 
usual,  to  the  calls  of  humanity.  I'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  ol 
this  kind  should  happen,  especially  to  a  man  I  have  shown  every 
where,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Rich.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of  making  the  misfor 
tunes  of  others  your  own. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man  like  me  do  ?  One 
man  can't  do  everything ;  and  then,  I  do  so  much  in  this  way  every 
day : — Let  me  see ;  something  considerable  might  be  done  for  him 
by  subscription ;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list  I'll  under- 
take to  set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the 
lower  house,  at  my  own  peril 


134  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Sir  Wilr  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  probable,  sir,  he  might 
reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful  patronage. 

Loft.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You  know  I  never 
make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried  to  do  something 
with  him  in  the  way  of  business  ;  but,  as  I  often  told  his  uncle, 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  the  man  was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  WiL  His  uncle  !  then  that  gentleman,  I  suppose,  is  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  yours. 

Loft.  Meaning  me, sir? — Yes,  madam,  as  I  often  said,  My  deal 
Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would  do  anything,  as  far  as  my 
poor  interest  goes,  to  serve  your  family  ;  but  what  can  be  done  ? 
there's  no  procuring  first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities. 

Miss  Rich.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honeywood  ;  he's 
abroad  in  employment:  he  confided  in  your  judgment,  I  suppose? 

Loft.  Why,  yes,  madam,!  believe  Sir  William  had  some  reason 
to  confide  in  my  judgment  ;  one  little  reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Rich.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Loft.  Why,  madam,  but  let  it  go  no  farther — it  was  I  procured 
him  his  place. 

Sir  Wil.  Did  you,  sir  ? 

Loft.  Either  you  or  I,  sir. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind  indeed. 

Loft.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure;  he  had  some  amusing  quali- 
ties ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast-master  of  a  club,  or  had 
a  better  head. 

Miss  Rich.  A  better  head  ? 

Loft.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull  as  a  choice 
spirit  :  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very  grateful  ;  and  gratitude 
hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  Wil.  He  might  have  reason  perhaps.  His  place  is  pretty 
considerable,  I'm  told. 

Loft.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of  business.  The 
truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a  greater. 

Sir  Wil.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir?  I'm  told  he's 
much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir  ? 

Loft.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ;  but  then  he 


THE  GOOD  -NA  TV  RED  MAN,  135 

wanted  a  something — a  consequence  of  form — a  kind  of  a — 1 
believe  the  lady  perceives  my  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Oh,  perfectly  1  you  courtiers  can  do  anything,  I 
»ee. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  exchange ;  we  do 
greater  things  for  one  another  every  day.  Why,  as  thus,  now  :  let 
me  suppose  you  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury  ;  you  have  an  em- 
ployment in  you  that  I  want ;  I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you  want ; 
do  me  here,  do  you  there  ;  interest  of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat, 
done  and  done,  and  it's  over. 

Sir  Wil.  A  thought  strikes  me.  (Aside.)  Now  you  mention 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  madam,  and  as  he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yours,  you'll  be  glad  to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy ;  I 
had  it  from  a  friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and 
you  may  depend  on  my  information. 

Loft.  The  devil  he  is  !  If  I  had  known  that  we  should  not  have 
been  so  well  acquainted.  [Aside. 

Sir  Wil.  He  is  certainly  returned  j  and  as  this  gentleman  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  service  to  us,  by  introducing 
ine  to  him  ;  there  are  some  papers  relative  to  your  affairs  that  re- 
quire despatch,  and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Rich.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a  person  employed  in 
my  affairs  ;  I  know  you'll  serve  us. 

Loft.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. — Sir  William 
shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think  proper  to  command  it 

Sir  Wil.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Loft.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call  upon  me — let 
me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  Wil.   Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost  for  ever. 

Loft.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be. — But  damn  it,  that's 
unfortunate  ;  my  Lord  Grig's  cursed  Pensacola  business  comes  on 
ilus  very  hour,  and  I'm  engaged  to  attend — another  time — 

Sir  Wil.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Loft.  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a  letter  is  a  ver) 
bad  way  of  going  to  work  :  f;u:e  to  face,  that's  my  way. 

Sir  tt'U.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  wel) 


136  GOLDSMlTfTS  PLA  VS. 

Loft.  Zounds  !  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me  ?  direct  me  in 
the  business  of  office  ?  Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?  who  am  I  ? 

Miss  Rich.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not  so  much  his  as 
mine ;  if  my  commands — but  you  despise  my  power. 

Loft.  Delicate  creature  !  your  commands  could  even  control  a 
debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so  constitutional,  I  am  al! 
obedience  and  tranquillity.  He  shall  have  a  letter:  where  is  my 
secretary?  Dubardieu  !  and  yet,  I  protest  I  don't  like  this  way  of 
doing  business.  I  think  if  I  spoke  first  to  Sir  William. —  But  you 
will  have  it  so.  [Exit  with  Miss  RICH  LAND. 

Sir  Wil.  (alone.)  Ha,  ha,  ha! — This,  too,  is  one  of  my  nephew's 
hopeful  associates.  O  vanity,  thou  constant  deceiver,  how  do  all 
thy  efforts  to  exalt  serve  but  to  sink  us  !  Thy  false  colourings,  like 
those  employed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that  bloom 
which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I'm  not  displeased  at  this  inter- 
view :  exposing  this  fellow's  impudence  to  the  contempt  it  deserves 
may  be  of  use  to  my  design ;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it  will  be 
of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  JARVIS. 

Sir  Wil.  How  now,  Jarvis,  where's  your  master,  my  nephew? 
Jar.  A.t  his  wit's  ends,  I  believe  :  he's  scarce  gotten  out  of  one 
scrape,  but  he's  running  his  head  into  another. 
Sir  Wil.  How  so  ? 

Jar.  The  house  has  just  been  cleared  of  the  bailiffs,  and  now 
he's  again  engaging  tooth  and  nail  in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to 
patch  up  a  clandestine  match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the 
house  for  his  sister. 

Sir  Wil.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jar.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young  couple,  it  seems,  are 
just  setting  out  for  Scotland ;  and  he  supplies  them  with  money  for 
the  journey. 

Sir  Wil.  Money !  how  is  he  able  to  supply  others,  who  has 
icarce  any  for  himself? 

Jar.  Why,  there  it  is :  he  has  no  money,  that's  true ;  but  then, 
as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in  his  life,  he  has  given  them  a 
bill*  drawn  t\  a  friend  of  his,  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city,  which 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  137 

I  am    to  get  changed ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them 
•  c  Sc    otland  myself. 
SirWil.   How? 

Jar.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to  take  a  different 
road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call  upon  an  uncle  of  his  that 
lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception 
when  they  return  ;  so  they  have  borrowed  me  from  my  master  as 
:he  properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  Wil.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A  pleasant  journey, 
Jarvis. 

Jar.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues  on't. 
Sir  Wil.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter  and  less  fatiguing  than  you 
imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of  the  young  lady's  family  and 
connections,  whom  I  have  seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered 
that  M'iss  Richland  is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nephew ; 
and  will  endeavour,  though,  I  fear,  in  vain,  to  establish  that  con- 
nection. But,  come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished  ; 
I'll  let  you  farther  into  my  intentions  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE — Croaker's  House. 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil's  in  me  of  late,  for  running  my  head 
;mo  such  defiles  as  nothing  but  a  genius  like  my  own  could  draw 
te  from.  1  was  formerly  contented  to  husband  out  my  places  and 
tensions  with  some  degree  of  frugality ;  but,  curse  it,  of  late  I  have 
;iven  away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than  they  could 
>'mt  the  title-page :  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a  lie  or  two  to  come 
>!  i  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell  a  thousand  for  nothing.  Ha  ! 
i  i.Mieywood  here  before  me.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set  him 
u  uuerty  f 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Mr,  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again.  I  find  my 
:oncurrcnce  was  not  necessary  in  your  unfortunate  affairs.  I  had 


1 38  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  YS. 

put  things  in  a  train  to  do  your  business ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeyw.  It  was  unfortunate  indeed,  sir.  But  what  adds  to  my 
uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  my  mis- 
fortune, I  myself  continue  still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Loft.   How  !  not  know  the  friend  -that  served  you  ? 

Honeyw.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Loft.   Inquire. 

Honeyw.  I  have ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he  chooses  to 
remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must  be  fruitless. 

Loft.  Must  be  fruitless  ! 

Honeyw.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Loft.  Sure  of  that? 

Honeyw.  Very  sure. 

Loft.  Then  I'll  be  d d  if  you  shall  ever  know  it  from  me. 

Honeyw.  How  sir  ? 

Loft.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think  my  rent-roll 
very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast  sums  of  money  to  throw 
away;  I  know  you  do.  The  world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me, 

Honeyw.  The.  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no  stranger  to  youi 
generosity.  But  where  does  this  tend  ? 

Loft  To  nothing  ;  nothing  in  the  world.  The  town,  to  be  sure, 
when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me  the  subject  of  conversation,  has 
asserted,  that  I  never  yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit 

Honeyw.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary,  even  from 
yourself. 

Loft.  Yes,  Honeywood:  and  there  are  instances  to  the  contrary, 
that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeyw.  Ha  !  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but  one  question. 

JLoft.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me  no  questions; 
I'll  be  d — — d  if  I  answer  them. 

Honfyw.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend  !  my  benefactor !  it 
is,  it  mu.st  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted  for  freedom,  for  hor  our. 
Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men,  from  the  beginning  1  suspected  it,  but 
was  afraid  to  return  thanks ;  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem 
reproaches. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN.  139 

Loft.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr.  Honeywood. 
You  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  assure  you,  sir — Blood,  sir, 
can't  a  man  be  permitted  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings, 
without  all  this  parade  ? 

Honeyw.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an  action  that  adds  to 
your  honour.  Your  looks,  your  air,  your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Loft.  Confess  it.sir!  fortune  itself,  sir,  shall  never  bring  me  to 
confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have  admitted  you  upon  terms  of 
friendship.  Dont't  let  us  fall  out;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be 
buried  in  oblivion.  You  know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know  I 
do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you  know  I  always  loved  to  be 
a  friend,  and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of 
distance  between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be  more 
familiar. — Indeed  we  must. 

Honeyw.  Heavens!  Can  I  ever  repay  such  friendship?  Is 
there  any  way? — Thou  best  of  men,  can  I  ever  return  the  obliga- 
tion ? 

Loft.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle  !  But  I  see  your  heart  is 
labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be  grateful.  It  would  be 

cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeyw.  How  !  teach  me  the  manner.     Is  there  any  way  ? 

Loft.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes,  my  friend,  you 
shall  know  it — I'm  in  love. 

Honeyw.  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Loft.  Nobody  so  well. 

Honeyw.  In  what  manner  ?     I'm  all  impatience. 

Loft.  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeyw.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your  favour  ? 

Loft.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  interest,  I  asure 
you  :  Miss  Richland. 

Honeyw.   Miss  Richtand  ! 

Loft.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the  blow  up  to  the 
hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Honeyiv.  Heavens!  was  ever  anything  more  unfortunate  ?  It 
is  too  much  to"  be  endured. 

Loft.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !    And  yet  I  can  endure  it,  till  you 


140  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  YS. 

have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me.     Between  ourselves,  I  think 
she  likes  me.     I'm  not  apt  to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeyw.  Indeed  !    But,  do  you  know  the  person  you  apply  to  ? 

Loft.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine  :  that's  enough. 
To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  success  of  my  passion.  I'll  say 
no  more,  let  friendship  do  the  rest  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if 
at  any  time  my  little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang  it,  I'll 
make  no  promises — you  know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any  time. 
No  apologies,  my  friend,  I'll  not  be  answered ;  it  shall  be  so. 

[Brit 

Honeyw.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man  !  He  little  thinks 
that  I  love  her  too ;  and  with  such  an  ardent  passion  ! — But  then 
it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and  hopeless  one  ;  my  torment,  my  perse- 
cution !  What  shall  I  do?  Love,  friendship  ;  a  hopeless  passion, 
a  deserving  friend  !  Love  that  has  been  my  tormentor ;  a  friend 
that  has,  perhaps,  distressed  himself  to  serve  me  It  shall  be  so. 
Yes  I  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my  bosom,  and  exert 
all  my  influence  in  his  favour.  And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  posses 
sion  of  another  ! — Insupportable  !  But  then  to  betray  a  generous, 
trusting  friend  ! — Worse,  worse  !  Yes,  I'm  resolved.  Let  me  but 
be  the  instrument  of  their  happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country, 
where  I  must  foi  ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA,  and  GARNET,  who  carries  a  milliner's  box. 

Oliv.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  orer.  No  news  of 
Jarvis  yet  ?  I  believe  the  old  peevish  creature  delays  purely  to 
vex  me. 

Gam.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him  say,  a  little 
snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach  you  to  bear  it  the  bettei 
afterwards. 

Ohv.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only  to  get  a  bill 
changed  in  the  city  !  How  provoking  ! 

Gam.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had  twice  as  much 
to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time  from  his  inn  :  and  here  you  are 
left  behind. 

Oliv.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming,  however.  Are 
you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing,  Garnet  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  14' 

Garn.  Not  a  stick,  madam — all's  here.  Yet  I  wish  I  could 
take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married  in.  It's  the  worst  luck  in 
the  world,  in  anything  but  white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs,  of 
our  town,  that  was  married  in  red ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
the  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Oliv.  No  matter.  I'm  all  impatience  till  we  are  out  of  the 
house. 

Garn.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the  wedding- 
ring  ! — The  sweet  little  thing — I  don't  think  it  would  go  on  my 
little  finger.     And  what  if  I  put  in  a  gentleman's  nightcap,  in  case 
of  necessity,  madam? — But  here's  Jarvis. 
Enter  JARVIS. 

Oliv.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last  ?  We  have  been  ready 
this  half  hour.  Now  let's  be  going.  Let  us  fly. 

Jarv.  Ay,  to  Jericho ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going  to  Scotland 
this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Oliv.  How  !  what's  the  matter? 

Jarv.  Money,  money,  is  the  matter,  madam.  We  have  got  no 
money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me  of  your  fool's  errand 
for  ?  My  master's  bill  upon  the  city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here 
it  is ;  Mrs.  Garnet  may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it 

Oliv.  Undone  1  How  could  Honeywood  serve  us  so  ?  What 
shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  go  without  it  ? 

Jarv.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  I  To  Scotland  without 
money !  Lord,  how  some  people  understand  geography !  We 
might  as  well  set  sail  for  Patagonia  upon  a  cork-jacket 

Oliv.  Such  a  disappointment !  What  a  base,  insincere  man 
was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  manner  1  Is  this  his  good- 
nature ? 

Jarv.  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam,  I  won't  bear  to 
hear  anybody  talk  ill  of  him  but  myself. 

Garn.  Bless  us !  now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you  need  not  be 
under  any  uneasiness :  I  saw  Mr.  Leontine  receive  forty  guineas 
from  his  father  just  before  he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left 
the  inn.  A  short  letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Oliv.  Well  remembered,  Garnet ;  I'll  write  immediately.  How's 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


chis !  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles  so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do 
you  write,  Garnet ;  and,  upon  second  thought,  it  will  be  better 
from  you. 

Garn.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but  poorly.  I  never 
was  'cute  at  my  learning.  But  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  please  you. 
Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my  own  head,  I  suppose ! 

Oliv.  Whatever  you  please, 

Garn.  ( Writing!)  Muster  Croaker — Twenty  guineas,  madam  ? 

Oliv.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garn.  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for.  Expedition- 
Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame — Quick  despatch — Cupid,  the 
little  god  of  love. — I  conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid  :  I  love  to 
see  a  love-letter  end  like  poetry. 

Oliv.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  anything.  But  how  shall  we 
send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the  servants  of  this  family. 

Garn.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is  in  the  next 
room  :  he's  a  dear,  sweet  man  :  he'll  do  anything  for  me. 

Jarv.  He  !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some  blunder.  He's 
drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 

Oliv.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet :  anybody  we  can  trust  will  do. 
[Exit  GARNET.]  Well,  Jarvis,  now  we  can  have  nothing  more  to 
interrupt  us;  you  may  take  up  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to 
the  inn.  Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis  ! 

Jarv.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You,  that  are  going  to  be  married, 
think  things  can  never  be  done  too  fast ;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and 
know  what  we  are  about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Oliv.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be  done  over 

again 

Jarv.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times  over. 

Oliv.  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?     If  you  knew  how  unhappy  they 

make  me 

Jarv.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt :  I  was  once  just  as  unhappy 
when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself.  I'll  tell  you  a  story 
about  that 

Oliv.  A  story !  when  I  am  all  impatience  to  be  away.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature  1 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  14. 

Jarv.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we  will  march, 
that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have  still  forgot  one  thing  . 
we  should  never  travel — without  a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box 
of  shaving  powder.  But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  pretty 
well  shaved  by  the  way.  [Going 

Enter  GARNET. 

Garn.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr.  Jarvis,  you  said 
right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr.  Honeywood's  rogue  of  a 
drunken  butler  dropped  the  letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from 
the  door.  There's  old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up,  and  is  this 
moment  reading  it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 

Oliv.  Unfortunate  !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garn.  No,  madam  ;  don't  be  uneasy,  he  can  make  neither 
head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure  he  looks  as  if  he  was  broken  loose 
from  Bedlam  about  it,  but  he  can't  find  what  it  means  for  all  that. 
O  lud,  he  is  coming  this  way  all  in  the  horrors ! 

Oliv.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant,  for  fear  he  should 
ask  farther  questions.  In  the  meantime,  Garnet,  do  you  write 
and  send  off  just  such  another.  [Exeunt 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croak.  Death  and  destruction  !  Are  all  the  horrors  of  air,  fire, 
and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at  me  !  Am  I  only  to  be  singled 
out  for  gunpowder-plots,  combustibles,  and  conflagration?  Here 
it  is — An  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  "  To  Muster 
Croaker,  these  with  speed."  Ay,  ay,  plain  enough  the  direction ; 
;ill  in  the  genuine  incendiary  spelling,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil. 
"With  speed."  O,  confound  your  speed.  But  let  me  read  it 
once  more.  (Reads.)  "  Muster  Croaker,  as  sone  as  yowe  see  this, 
leve  twenty  gunnes  at  the  bar  of  the  Talboot  tell  caled  for,  ot 
yowe  and  yower  experetion  will  be  al  blown  up."  Ah,  but  too 
plain.  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every  line  of  it  Blown  up  ! 
murderous  dog  !  All  blown  up  !  Heavens !  what  have  I  and 
my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all  blown  up  ?  (Reads.)  "  Our 
pockets  are  low,  and  money  we  must  have."  Ay,  there's  the 
reason ;  they'll  blow  us  up,  because  they  have  got  low  pockets 


1 44  GOLDSMITHS  PL  A  YS, 

{Reads.)  "  It  is  but  a  short  time  you  have  to  consider ;  for  if  this 
take  wind,  the  house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  flame."  Inhuman 
monsters !  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us  1  The  earthquake  at 
Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it.  (Reads!)  "  Make  quick  despatch, 
and  so  no  more  at  present.  But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of 
love,  go  with  you  wherever  you  go."  The  little  god  of  love  ! 
Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  me ;  go  you  to  the  devil, 
you  and  your  little  Cupid  together.  I'm  so  frightened,  I  scarce 
know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or  go.  Perhaps  this  moment  I'm 
treading  on  lighted  matches,  blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels  of 
gunpowder.  They  are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds. 
Murder!  We  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds;  we  shall  be  all 
burnt  in  our  beds. 

Enter  Miss  HIGHLAND. 

Miss  Ri£h.  Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Croak.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all  blown  up  in  our 
beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Rich.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croak.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam,  when  I  have  a 
certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand ;  will  nothing  alarm  my  family  ? 
Sleeping  and  eating,  sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from 
morning  till  night  in  my  house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep 
though  rocked  by  an  earthquake,  and  fry  beef  steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so  often  already  ; 
we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  famines,  plagues,  and  mad  dogs, 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above 
a  month  ago,  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers  to 
poison  us  in  our  bread  ;  and  so  kept  the  whole  family  a  week  upon 
potatoes. 

Croak.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them.  But  why  do  1 
jtand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I  should  be  facing  the  enemy 
without  ?  Here,  John,  Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into 
the  cellars,  to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below  :  and  above, 
in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the  windows. 
Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn  out  in 
the  yard,  to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity.  [Exit. 


THE  GOOD-MATURED  MAN.  US 

Miss  Rich.  (Alone).  What  can  he  mean  by  all  this  ?  Yet  wh\ 
should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in  this  manner  almost  every 
day.  But  Honeywood  has  desired  an  interview  with  me  in  pri 
vate.  What  can  he  mean  ?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation 
at  his  approach?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  showed  anything  in 
his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure  he  cannot  mean  to— 
but  he's  here. 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview,  madam,  before  1 
left  town  to  be  permitted — 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed  !    Leaving  town,  sir  ? — 

Honeyw.  Yes,  madam ;  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I  'have  pre- 
sumed, I  say,  to  desire  the  favour  of  this  interview, — in  order  to 
disclose  something  which  our  long  friendship  prompts.  And  yet 
ray  fears — 

Miss  Rich.  His  fears!  What  are  his  fears  to  mine!  (Aside,} 
We  have  indeed  been  long  acquainted,  sir  ;  very  long.  If  I  re- 
member, our  first  meeting  was  at  the  French  ambassador's. — Do 
you  recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my  com- 
plexion there  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly,  madam  :  I  presumed  to  reprove  you  for 
painting ;  but  your  warmer  blushes  soon  convinced  the  company 
that  the  colouring  was  all  from  nature. 

Miss  Rich.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  your  good-natured 
way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to  myself.  In  the  same  man- 
ner you  danced  that  night  with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  com- 
pany, because  you  saw  nobody  else  'vould  take  her  out 

Honeyw.  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night  by  dancing 
with  the  finest  woman  in  company,  whom  everybody  wished  to 
take  out 

Miss  fltch.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  I  fear  your  judg- 
ment has  since  corrected  the  errors  of  a  first  impression.  We 
generally  show  to  most  advantage  at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor 
tradesmen,  that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

Honeyw.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  indeed  deceive  me. 
I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all  the  faults  of  conscious  nattered 

10 


146  GOLDSMITH  S  PLA  VS. 

beauty ;  I  expected  to  find  her  vain  and  insolent.  But  every  da> 
has  since  taught  me,  that  it  is  possible  to  possess  sense  without 
pride,  and  beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual  with  Mr.  Honey 
wood ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know  why  he  thus  attempts  to 
increase  that  vanity,  which  his  own  lessons  have  taught  me  to 
despise. 

Honeyw.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our  long  friendship 
I  presumed  I  might  have  some  right  to  offer,  without  offence,  what 
you  may  refuse  without  offending. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  !  I  beg  you'd  reflect :  though  I  fear,  I  shall  scarce 
have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request  of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  pre 
cipitate  :  consider,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  own  my  rashness  ;  but  as  I  plead  the  cause  of  friend 
ship,  of  one  who  loves — Don't  be  alarmed,  madam — who  loves 
you  with  the  most  ardent  passions,  whose  whole  happiness  is 
placed  in  you — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom  you  mean,  by 
this  description  of  him. 

Honeyw.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points  him  out ;  though 
he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to  urge  his  pretensions,  or  you 
too  modest  to  understand  them. 

Miss  Rich.  Well ;  it  would  be  affectation  any  longer  to  pretend 
ignorance;  and  I  will  own,  sir,  I  have  long  been  prejudiced  in 
his  favour.  It  was  but  natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as 
he  seemed  himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeyw.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (Aside.')  I  find  madam, 
you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth,  his  passion.  How  happy  is 
my  friend,  to  be  the  favourite  of  one  with  such  sense  to  distinguish 
merit,  and  such  beauty  to  reward  it 

Miss  Rich.  Your  friend,  sir  ?    What  friend  ? 

Honeyw.  My  best  friend — my  friend,  Mr.  Lofty,  madam. 

Miss  Rich.  He,  sir ! 

Honeyw.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what  your  warmest 
vishes  might  have  formed  him  ;  and  to  his  other  qualities  he  adds 
that  of  the  most  passionate  regard  for  you. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Miss  Rich.  Amazement  !  —  No  more  of  this,  I  beg  you,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and  know  how  to  in- 
terpret it  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read  the  language  of  your 
heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend  happy,  by  communicating  your  sen- 
timents. 

Miss  Rich.  By  no  means. 

Honeyw.   Excuse  me,  I  must  ;  I  know  you  desire  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you,  that  you  wrong 
my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I  first  applied  to  your  friend 
ship,  I  expected  advice  and  assistance  :  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it 
is  in  vain  to  expect  happiness  from  him,  who  has  been  so  bad  an 
economist  of  his  own  ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship  who 
ceases  to  be  a  friend  to  himself.  [Exit. 

Honeyw.  How  is  this  !  she  has  confessed  she  loved  him,  and 
yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure.  Can  I  have  done  any 
thing  to  reproach  myself  with  ?  No  ;  I  believe  not  :  yet  after  all. 
ihese  things  should  not  be  done  by  a  third  person  :  I  should  have 
spared  her  confusion.  My  friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  CROAKER,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  MRS.  CROAKER 

Mrs.  Croak.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's  your  supreme 
wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched  upon  this  occasion  ?  ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak.  (Mimicking.}  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's  your 
supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better  consolation  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Positively,  my  dear  ;  what  is  this  incendiary  stuff 
and  trumpery  to  me  ?  our  house  may  travel  through  the  air  like 
the  house  of  Loretto,  for  aught  I  care,  if  I  am  to  be  miserable 
in  it 

Croak.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  converted  into  a  house  of 
correction  for  your  benefit  !  Have  we  not  everything  to  alarm 
us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment  the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till  the  rising  of 
the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  money  they  want,  and  have  done 
with  them. 

Croak.  rj\vz  them  my  money  !  —  And  pray,  what  right  have 
they  to  my  money  ? 

to  —  t 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


Mrs.  Croak.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have  you  to  my  good- 
humour  ? 

Croak.  And  so  your  good-humour  advises  me  to  part  with  my 
money  ?  Why  then,  to  tell  your  good-humour  a  piece  of  my  mind, 
I'd  sooner  part  with  my  wife.  Here's  Mr.  Honeywood,  see  what 
he'll  say  to  it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary 
letter  dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror;  and 
yet  lovey  here  can  read  it — can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croak.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the  next  minute  in 
the  rogue's  place,  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood ;  is  there  anything  more 
foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon  this  occasion? 

Honeyw.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide,  madam;  but, 
doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors  now  will  but  invite  them  to 
renew  their  villany  another  time. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  told  you  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croak.  How,  sir !  do  you  maintain  that  I  should  lie  down 
under  such  an  injury,  and  show,  neither  by  my  tears  nor  com- 
plaints, that  I  have  something  of  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  me? 

Honeyw.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make  the  loudest 
complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The  surest  way  to  have  redress, 
is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

Croak.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing  off  our  fears  is 
the  best  way? 

Honeyw.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can  say ;  but  I'll  main- 
tain it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croak.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best  Surely  th«  best  way  is  to 
face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not  wait  till  he  plunders  us  in  ou. 
very  bed-chamber. 

Honeyw.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that — that's  a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  can  anything  be  more  absurd,  than  to  double 
our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions,  and  put  it  in  the  power  of 
every  low  fellow  that  can  scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling 
to  torment  us  ? 


TUB  GOOD-NATURED  MAN,  .4y 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croak.  How  !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to  despise  the 
tattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croak.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion. 

Honeyw.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  you  reject  mine? 

Honeyw.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No  sure,  no  reasoning  can 
be  more  just  than  yours.  We  ought  certainly  to  despise  malice 
if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and  not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal 
to  our  repose  as  the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croak.  O !  then  you  think  I'm  quite  right  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly  right. 

Croak.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both  right  I  ought 
to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My  hat  must  be  on  my  head, 
or  my  hat  must  be  oft 

Mrs.  Croak.  Certainly  in  two  opposite  opinions,  if  one  be  per- 
fectly reasonable,  the  other  can't  be  perfectly  right. 

Honeyw.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right,  madam?  Mr. 
Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress,  and  you  in  waiting  the  event 
with  good-humour  ?  Pray,  let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it 
This  letter  requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the 
Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  what  if  you  and 
I,  sir,  go  there ;  and  when  the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  for  his 
expected  booty,  seize  him  ? 

Croak.  My  dear  friend,  it's  the  very  thing ;  the  very  thing. 
While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall  plant  yourself  in  ambush  near 
the  bar;  burst  out  upon  the  miscreant  like  a  masked  battery; 
extort  a  confession  at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeyw.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  exercise  too  much 
severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that  crimes  generally  punish  them- 
selves. 

Croak.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little,  I  suppose? 
{Ironically.} 

Honeyw.  Ay,  but  not  punish  hiin  too  rigidly. 

Croak.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevolence. 


ISO  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Honeyw.  Well,  I  do ;  but  remember  that  universal  benevolence 
is  the  first  law  of  nature.  [Exeunt  HONEYWOOD  and  MRS.  CROAKER. 

Croak  Yes ;  and  my  universal  benevolence  will  hang  the  dog, 
if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE — An  Inn. 
Enter  OLIVIA  and  JARVIS. 

Oliv.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  however.     Now,  if  the 

post-chaise  were  ready 

Jar.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats ;  and,  as  they  are 
not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose  to  take  their  own  time. 

Oliv.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to  my  impatience. 

Jar.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must  take  their  own 

time ;  besides,  you  don't  consider  we  have  got  no  answer  from  our 

fellow-traveller  yet  If  we  hear  nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have 

only  one  way  left  us. 

Olio.  What  way? 

Jar.  The  way  home  again. 

Oliv.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go,  and  nothing 
shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jar.  Ay;  resolutions  are  well  kept  when  they  jump  with  inclina- 
tion. However,  I'll  go  hasten  things  without  And  I'll  call,  too, 
at  the  bar  to  see  if  anything  should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don't  be 
in  such  a  plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I 
promise  you.  [Exit  JARVIS. 

Enter  LANDLADY. 

Land.  What !  Solomon,  why  don't  you  move?  Pipes  and  tobacco 
for  the  Lamb  there.  Will  nobody  answer?  To  the  Dolphin;  quick. 
The  Angel  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  ladyship 
call,  madam  ? 

Oliv.  No,  madam. 

Land.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam. — But  that's  no 
business  of  mine;  married  or  not  married,  1  ask  no  questions.  To 
be  sure  we  had  a  sweel  li'tle  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was,  to  be  sure, 
as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the 
young  lady  so  bashful  :  it  was  near  half  an  hour  before  we  could 
get  her  to  finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between  us. 

Oliv.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to  be  married,  1 
assure  you. 

Land.  May  be  not  That's  no  business  of  mine  ;  for  certain. 
Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well.  There  was,  of  my  own 
knowledge,  Miss  Macfag,  that  married  her  father's  footman  —  alack- 
a-day,  she  and  her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate 
cellars  in  Hedge-lane. 

Oliv.  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies  before  me  1         [Aside. 
Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leant.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  were  out  of  danger, 
was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could  not  help  coming  to  see  you 
set  out,  though  it  exposes  us  to  a  discovery. 

Oliv.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  fortunate.  Indeed, 
Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disappointed.  Mr.  Honey- 
wood's  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it  seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have 
been  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  , 

Leont.  How  !  an  offer  of  his  own  too  !  Sure  he  could  not  mean 
to  deceive  us  ? 

Oliv.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity  :  he  only  mistook  the  desire 
for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let  us  think  no  more  of  it  I 
believe  the  post-chaise  is  ready  by  this. 

Land.  Not  quite,  'yet  ;  and,  begging  your  ladyship's  pardon,  1 
don't  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready  for  the  post-chaise.  The 
north  road  is  a  cold  place,  madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  01 
as  pretty  raspberry  as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just  a  thimble 
ful  to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach.  —  To  be  sure,  the  last  couple 
we  had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect  nosegay.  Ecod,  I  sent  them 
both  away  as  good-natured  —  Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  the 
wheels,  and,  "  Drive  away,  post-boy,"  was  the  word. 
Enter  CROAKER. 

Ctoak.  Well,  while  my  triend  Honey  wood  is  upon  the  post  of 


I5»  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  business  to  have  an  eye  about  me 
here.  I  think  I  know  an  incendiary's  look  ;  for  wherever  the  devil 
makes  a  purchase,  he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha  !  who  have 
we  here ?  My  son  and  daughter  !  What  can  they  be  doing  here  ? 

Land.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good ;  I  think  I  knn-.v 
by  this  time  what's  good  for  the  north  road.  It's  a  raw  night 
madam. — Sir — 

Leant.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should  now  take  it  as 
a  great  favour  if  you  hasten  the  horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen 
myself. 

Land.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon  !  are  you  all  de  >d 
there  ?  Wha,  Solomon,  I  say  !  \Exit  bawling. 

Oliv.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in  fear  should  end 
in  repentance. — Every  moment  we  stay  increases  our  danger,  and 
adds  to  my  apprehensions. 

Leant.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear  :  there  can  be  none. 
If  Honeyv/ood  has  acted  with  honour,  and  kept  my  father,  as  he 
promised,  in  employment  till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can 
interrupt  our  journey. 

Oliv.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honey  wood's  sincerity,  and  even 
his  desire  to  serve  us.     My  fears  are  from  your  father's  suspicion.-! 
A  mind  so  disposed  to  be^  alarmed  without  cause,  will  be  but  to 
ready  when  there's  a  reason. 

Leant.  Why  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his  power.   But,  belie \ 
me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great  reason  to  dread  his  resentment.    His 
repining  temper,  as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  wii. 
it  never  do  harm  to  others.     He  only  frets  to  keep  himself  em 
ployed,  and  scolds  for  his  private  amusement 

Oliv.  I  don't  know  that ;  but  I'm  sure,  on  some  occasions,  ii 
\oakes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

CROAKER,  discovering  himself. 

Croak.  How  does  he  look  now  ? — How  does  he  look  now  ? 

Olw.  Ah! 

Leant.  Undone, 

Croak.  How  do  I  look  now?    Sir,  I  am  your  very  humble  ser 
tant   Madam,  I  am  j  ours.  What,  you  are  going  off,  are  you?  Then. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  i51 


first,  if  you  please,  take  a  word  or  two  from  me  v^h  you  befort 
you  go.  Tell  me  first  where  you  are  going ;  and  \vh«?n  you  havt 
told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did  befove. 

Leont.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  increase  youi  dis 
pleasure,  without  adding  to  your  information. 

Croak.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy  :  and  you,  too 
good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ?  Eh  !  (A  cry  without. 
Stop  him/}  I  think  I  heard  a  noise.  My  friend  Honeywood  with 
out — has  he  seized  the  incendiary  ?  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no 
more  on't. 

Leant.  Honeywood  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood 
that  directed  you  hither  ? 

Croak.  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  conducted  me  hither. 

Leant.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Croak.  Possible !  Why  he's  in  the  house  now,  sir;  more  anxious 
about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leont.  Then,  sir,  he's  a  villain. 

Croak.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes  most  care  o/ 
your  father  ?  I'll  not  bear  it  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  bear  it  Honey- 
wood  is  a  friend  to  the  family,  and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leont.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it  deserves. 

Croak.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he  entered  into  my 
griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to  detect  them,  you  would  love 
him.  as  I  do.  (A  cry  without,  Stop  him!)  Fire  and  fury  !  they  have 
seized  the  incendiary :  they  have  the  villain,  the  incendiary  in  view. 
Stop  him  !  stop  an  incendiary !  a  murderer  !  stop  him !  [Exit. 

Oliv.  Oh,  my  terrors  !  What  can  this  tumult  mean  ? 

Leont.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sin- 
cerity. But  we  shall  have  satisfaction :  he  shall  give  me  instant 
satisfaction. 

Oliv.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value  my  esteem  or 
happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate,  let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  mis- 
fortunes.— Consider  that  our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  that  we 
have  left  us.  You  must  forgive  him. 

Leont.  Forgive  him !  has  he  not  in  every  instance  betrayed  us  ? 
Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from  him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick 


154  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

to  delay  us ;  promised  to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out 
of  danger,  and  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape? 
Oliv.  Don't  be  precipitate.    We  may  yet  be  mistaken. 

Enter  POSTBOY,  dragging  in  JARVIS  ;   HONEYWOOD  entering  soon 

after. 

Post.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough.  Here  is  the  incen- 
Jiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the  reward;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw 
him  ask  for  the  money  at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it 

Honeyw.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see  him.  Let  him  learn 
to  blush  for  his  crimes.  (Discovering  his  mistake.)  Death  !  what's 
here  ?  Jarvis,  Leontine,  Olivia  !  What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Jar.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means :  that  I  was  an  old  fool, 
arid  that  you  are  my  master — that's  all. 

Honeyw.  Confusion ! 

Leant.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word  with  me.  After 
such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you  can  venture  to  see  the  man  you 
have  injured. 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my  honour — 

Leont.  Peace,  peace,  tor  shame ;  and  do  not  continue  to  aggra- 
vate baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you,  sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me  !  By  all  that's  just,  I  knew 
not 

Leont.  Hear  you,  sir  !  to  what  purpose  ?    I  now  see  through  all 

our  low  arts ;  your  ever  complying  with  every  opinion;  your  never 

cfusing  any  request :  your  friendship's  as  common  as  a  prostitute's 

1  ivours,  and  as  fallacious  ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  contemp- 

ble  to  the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeyw.  Ha  !  contemptible  to  the  world  ;  that  readies  me. 

[Aside. 

Leont.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  professions,  I  now  find. 
>v<;re  only  allurements  to  betray  ;  and  all  your  seeming  regret  for 
iheir  consequences,  only  calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  youi 
h  eart.  Draw,  villain  ! 

Enter  CROAKER,  out  of  breath. 
Croak.  Where  is  the  villain?  Where  is  the  incendiary?  (Seizing 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


«5S 


1he  POSTBOY.)  Hold  him  fast,  the  dog  :  he  has  the  gallows  in  his 
face.  Come,  you  dog,  confess ;  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Post.  Zounds  !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me  for  ? 

Croak,  (Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist?  do  you  resist? 

Post.  Zounds !  master,  I'm  not  he ;  there's  the  man  that  we 
thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to  be  one  of  the  company. 

Croak.  How ! 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under  a  strange  mistake 
here;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty;  it  was  all  an  error;  entirely 
an  error  of  our  own. 

Croak.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you're  in  an  error ;  for  there's  guilt 
and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  Jesuitical,  pestilential  plot,  and 
I  must  have  proof  of  it 

Honeyw.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croak.  What !  you  intend  to  bring 'em  of£  I  suppose?  I'll  heai 
nothing. 

Honeyw.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enough  to  hear  reason. 

Olw.  Excuse  me. 

Honeyw.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me,  then,  explain  it  to  you. 

Jar.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing  is  done  ? 

Honeyw.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever  such  a  set,  so 
blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice?  (To  the  Postboy.)  My  good 
friend,  I  believe  you'll  be  surprised  when  I  assure  you 

Post.    Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing  but  a  good  beating. 

Croak.  Come,  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope  for  any  favoui 
or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  "U  you  know  of  this  affair. 

Oliv.  Unhappily,  sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the  cause  of  your  sus- 
picions. You  see  before  you,  sir,  one  that,  with  false  pretences, 
has  stepped  into  your  family  to  betray  it ;  not  your  daughter 

Croak.   Not  my  daughter  I 

Oliv.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  deceiver — who — support 
me,  I  cannot 

Honeyw.  Help,  she's  going ;  give  her  air. 

Croak.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the  air ;  I  would  not 
hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever  daughter  she  may  be — not  so 
bad  as  that  neither.  \£xfunt  all  but  CROAKER. 


,56  GOLDS  MI  TITS  PLAYS. 

Croak.  Yes,  yes,  all's  out ;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair  :  my  son 
is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady,  whom  he  imposed 
ipon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  certainly  so ;  and  yet  I  don't  find  it 
ifflicts  me  so  much  as  one  might  think.  There's  the  advantage  of 
'retting  away  our  misfortunes  beforehand,  we  never  feel  them  when 
i  hey  come. 

Enter  Miss  RICHLAND  and  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Sir  Wil.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that  my  nephew  intends 
Betting  off  from  this  place  r 

Miss  Rich.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come  to  this  inn,  and 
my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to  leave  the  kingdom  suggested 
the  rest.  But  what  do  I  see  !  my  guardian  here  before  us  !  Who, 
my  dear  sir,  could  have  expected  meeting  you  here  ?  to  what  acci- 
dent do  we  owe  this  pleasure  ? 

Croak.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Rich.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come  ? 

Croak.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Rich.  But  with  whom  ? 

Croak.  With  greater  fools  than  myse'it 

Miss  Rich.  Explain. 

Croak.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me  here,  to  do  nothing, 
now  I  am  here;  and  my  son  is  going  to  be  married  to  I  don't  know 
«  ho,  that  is  here :  so  now  you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Rich.  Married  !  to  whom,  sir  ? 

Croak.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to  be ;  but  who 
the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is,  I  know  no  more  than 
the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  Wil.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you  ;  and,  though  a  stranger, 
}  ji  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to  your  family.  It  will  be  enough, 
at  present,  to  assure  you,  that  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune 
the  young  lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her  father, 
Sir  James  Woodville 

Croak.  Sir  James  Woodville  !  What,  of  the  west  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care  of  a  mercenary 
iv  retch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure  her  fortune  to  himself,  she 
vas  sent  to  France,  under  pretence  of  education;  and  there  every 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN,  157 

art  was  tried  to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclina 
tions.  Of  this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at  Paris ;  and,  as 
I  had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I  did  all  in  my  power  to  frus- 
trate her  guardian's  base  intentions.  I  had  even  meditated  to 
rescue  her  from  his  authority,  when  your  son  stepped  in  with  more 
pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croak.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my  own  choosing, 
sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune,  by  my  interest  with  those 
who  have  interest,  will  be  double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Yes,  sir ;  and  know  that  you  are  deceived  in  him.  But 
step  this  way,  and  I'll  convince  you. 

[CROAKER  and  SIR  WILLIAM  seem  to  confer. 
Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his  outrage !  Insulted 
by  him,  despised  by  all  I  now  begin  to  grow  contemptible  even 
to  myself.  How  have  I  sunk  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please  •. 
How  have  I  over-taxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of  a* 
single  fool  should  escape  me !  But  all  is  now  over.  I  have  survived 
my  reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and  nothing  remains 
henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Rich.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that  you  are  setting  off, 
without  taking  leave  of  your  friends  ?  The  report  is,  that  you  are 
quitting  England :  can  it  be  ? 

Honeyw.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  have 
fallen  under  your  displeasure  ;  yet,  thank  Heaven  !  I  leave  you  to 
happiness ;  to  one  who  loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love  ;  to  one 
who  has  power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  improve 
your  enjoyment  of  it 

Miss  Rich.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the  gentleman  you  mean 
is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeyw.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it — his  serving  me.  He 
does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  happiness,  and  that  is  in  your 
power  to  confer.  As  for  me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been, 
obliged  by  all,  and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness  can 
1  find  but  in  solitude ?  what  hope,  but  in  being  forgotten? 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAVSt, 


Miss  Rich.  A  thousand  !  to  live  among  friends  that  esteem  you, 
whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  permitted  to  oblige  you. 

Honeyw.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed.  Inferiority  among 
strangers  is  easy  ;  but  among  those  that  once  were  equals,  insup- 
portable. Nay,  to  show  you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can 
now  speak  with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my 
dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even  confess,  that  among  the 
number  of  my  other  presumptions,  I  had  the  insolence  to  think 
of  loving  you.  Yes,  madam,  while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of 
another,  my  heart  was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is  over  j  it 
was  unworthy  our  friendship,  and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Miss  Rich.  You  amaze  me  ! 

Honeyw.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will  ;  since  the  con- 
fession should  not  have  come  from  me  even  now,  but  to  convince 
you  of  the  sincerity  of  my  intention  of—  never  mentioning  it  more. 

[Going. 

Miss  Rich.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment  —  Ha  !  he  here— 
Enter  LOFTY. 

Loft.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends  ?  I  have  followed 
you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelligence;  but  it  goes  no 
farther,  things  are  not  yet  ripe  for  a  discovery,  t  have  spirits 
working  at  a  certain  board  ;  your  affair  at  the  treasury  will  be 
done  in  less  than  a  thousand  years.  Mum  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Loft.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into  proper  hands 
that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to  parry  ;  that  know  how  the 
land  lies—  eh,  Honeywood  ? 

Miss  Rich.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Loft.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense,  your  thing  is 
done.  It  is  done,  I  say  —  that's  all.  I  have  just  had  assurances 
from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim  has  been  examined,  and  found 
admissible.  Quietus  is  the  word,  madam. 

Honeyw.  But  how  ?  his  lordship  has  been  at  Newmarket  these 
ten  days. 

Loft.  Indeed  !  Then,  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have  been  most 
iiaumabiy  mistaken.  I  had  it  of  him. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  159 

Miss  Rich.  He  !  why,  Sir  Gilbert  and  his  family  have  been  in 
tht  country  this  month. 

Ljft.  This  month  !  it  must  certainly  be  so — Sir  Gilbert's  letter 
did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  so  that  he  must  have  met  his 
lordship  there ;  and  so  it  came  about  I  have  his  letter  about 
me;  I'll  read  it  to  you.  (Taking  out  a  large  bundle?)  That's 
from  Paolfi  of  Corsica,  that  from  the  Marquis  of  Squilachi — 
Have  you  a  mind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Poniatowski,  now 
King  of  Poland?  — Honest  Pon — (Searching).  O,  sir,  what!  are 
you  here  too  t  I'll  tell  you  what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have  not 
absolutely  delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood,  you 
may  return  it.  The  thing  will  do  without  him. 

Sir  Wil.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it ;  and  must  inform  you,  it  was 
received  with  the  most  mortifying  contempt. 

Croak.  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that  mean  ? 

Loft.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You'll  find  it  come 
to  something  presently. 

Sir  Wil.  Yes,  sir ;  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed,  if  after  waiting 
some  time  in  the  ante-chamber,  after  being  surveyed  with  insolent 
curiosity  by  the  passing  servants,  I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir 
William  Honeywood  knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly 
have  been  imposed  upon. 

Loft.  Good  !  let  me  die ;  very  good.     Ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

Croak.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half  the  goodness  of  it. 

Loft.  You  can't  ?     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me !  I  think  it  was  as  confounded 
a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one  private  gentleman  to 
mother. 

Loft.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the  message.  Why, 
I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very  time.  Ha  !  ha  !  it  was  I  that  sent 
that  very  answer  to  my  own  letter.  Ha  !  ha! 

Croak.  Indeed1     How?  why? 

Loft.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William  and  me  must  bt 
behind  the  curtain.  A  party-  has  many  eyes.  He  sides  with  Lor! 
Buzzard,  I  side  .with  Sir  Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  tht 
mystery. 


,6o  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

Croak.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all  my  suspicions  are  over. 

Loft.  Your  suspicions  !  What,  then,  you  have  been  suspecting, 
you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you  ?  Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I 
were  friends  ;  we  are  friends  no  longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  It's 
over ;  I  say,  it's  over. 

Croak.  As  I  hope  for  your  favour,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend.  It 
escaped  me.  Don't  be  discomposed. 

Loft.  Zounds  !  sir,  but  I  am  jiscomposed,  and  will  be  discom- 
posed. To  be  treated  thus  !  Who  am  I  ?  Was  it  for  this  I  have 
been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and  outs  ?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the 
Gazetteer,  and  praised  in  the  St.  fames  si  have  I  been  chaired  at 
Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant-Tailor's  Hall  ?  have  I  had 
my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the  print  shops  ;  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects  ? 

Croak.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you  have  but  ask- 
ing pardon  ? 

Loft.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects  !  Who  am  I  ?  To 
be  used  thus !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men  in  favour  to  serve  my 
friends;  the  lords  of  the  treasury,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  and 
the  rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  ?  Who  am  I,  I 
say,  who  am  I  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Since  you  are  so  pressing  for  an  answer,  I'll  tell  you 
who  you  are : — A  gentleman  as  well  acquainted  with  politics  as 
with  men  in  power ;  as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as 
with  modesty  :  with  lords  of  the  treasury  as  with  truth ;  and  withal, 
as  you  are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood.  (Discovering  his  ensigns  of  the  Bath. ) 

Croak.  Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeyw.  Astonishment !  my  uncle !     (Aside.) 

Loft.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all  this  time  only 
'eading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to  fling  me  out  of  the  .  mdow. 

Croak.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your  works  ? 
Suspect  you  !  You,  who  have  been  dreaded  by  the  ins  and  outs  \ 
you,  who  have  had  your  hand  to  addresses,  and  your  head  stuck 
up  in  print-shops.  If  you  were  served  right,  you  should  have 
your  head  stuck  up  in  a  pillory. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  t6r 

Loft.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for,  by  the  Lord,  it  cuts  but  a 
very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at  present. 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now  see  how  incapable 
this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you,  and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has 
to  expect  from  his  influence. 

Croak.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can't  but  say  I  have 
had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So  I  am  resolved,  since 
my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on  a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to 
be  satisfied  with  his  choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of  another 
Mr.  Lofty  in  helping  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  Wil.  I  approve  your  resolution;  and  here  they  come  to 
receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon  and  consent 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER,  JARVIS,  LEONTINE,  and  OLIVIA. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Where's  my  husband  ?  Come,  come,  lovey,  you 
must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been  to  tell  me  the  whole 
affair ;  and  I  say,  you  must  forgive  them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen 
match,  you  know,  my  dear;  and  we  never  had  any  reason  to 
repent  of  it 

Ctvak.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However,  this  gentleman, 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been  beforehand  with  you  in  obtain- 
ing their  pardon.  So,  if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry, 
I  think  we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing  the  Tweed  for 
it  (Joining  their  hands.) 

Leant.  How  blest  and  unexpected !  What,  what  can  we  say  to 
such  goodness  ?  But  our  future  obedience  shall  be  the  best 
reply.  And  as  for  this  gentleman,  to  whom  we  owe — 

Sir  W.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your  thanks,  as  I  have 
here  an  interest  that  calls  me.  (Turning  to  Honeywood?)  Yes, 
sir,  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  ;  and  a  desire  of  correcting  your 
follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the  errors  of  a  mind 
that  only  sought  applause  from  others;  that  easiness  of  disposition, 
which  though  inclined  to  the  right,  had  not  courage  to  condemn  the 
wrong.  I  saw  with  regret  those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took 
name  from  some  neighbouring  duty ;  your  charity,  that  was  but 
injustice;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but  weakness;  and  you 

II 


GOLDSMITH*  S  I-LA  YS. 


;riendship,  but  credulity.  I  saw  with  regret  great  talents  and  ex- 
pensive learning  only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error,  and 
ncrease  your  perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a  thousand 
>atural  charms  ;  but  the  greatness  of  its  beauty  served  only  to 
'  tighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitution. 

Honeyw.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir  ;  I  have  for  some  time  but 
.00  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  reproaches.  But  there  is  one 
•vay  still  left  me.  Yes,  sir,  I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to 
juit  for  ever  a  place  where  I  have  made  myself  the  voluntary 
>lave  of  all,  and  to  seek  among  strangers  that  fortitude  which  may 
^ive  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all  its  dissipated  virtues. 
Vet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me  to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentleman  ; 
vho,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened,  has  laid  me  under  the 
i  lost  signal  obligations.  —  Mr.  Lofty  — 

Loft.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  reformation  as  well 

is  you.     I  now  begin  to  find  that  the  man  who  first  invented  the 

.irt  of  speaking  truth,  was  a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought 

him.     And  to  prove  that  I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future, 

I   must   now  assure  you  that   you  owe   your   late   enlargement 

o  another  ;  as,  upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.     So 

iow,  if  any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment,  he  may 

ike  my  place  ;  I'm  determined  to  resign.  \Exit. 

Honeyw.  How  have  I  been  deceived  ! 

Sir  Wil.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a  kinder,  fairei 
.lend,  for  that  favour  —  to  Miss  Richland.  Would  she  complete 
,Lir  joy,  and  make  the  man  she  has  honoured  by  her  friendship 
iappy  in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget  all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the 
.  elfcire  of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make  me. 

Miss  Rich.  After  what  is   past,  it  would  but  be  affectation  to 

,  retend  to  indifference.     Yes,  I  will  own  an  attachment,  which  I 

uid  was  more  than  friendship.  And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his 

^solution  to  quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not 

.  >\ver  to  detain  him.  (Giving  her  hand.) 

Honeyw.  Heavens  !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all  this  ?     How 

vpress  my  happiness,  my  gratitude?  —  A  moment  like  thi*  over 

vays  an  age  of  apprehension. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Croak.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face  ;  but  heaven  send 
we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months  ! 

Sir  Wil.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect  yourself.  He 
who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  without,  has  all  his  happiness  in 
another's  keeping. 

Honeyw.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive  my  errors;  my 
vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by  fearing  to  offend  any  ;  my 
meanness  in  approving  folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Hence- 
forth, therefore,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real 
distress  ;  my  friendship  for  true  merit  ;  and  my  love  for  her,  who 
first  taught  me  what  it  is  to  be  happy. 

EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN    BY   MRS.   BULKLEY. 

||  S  puffing  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought  a  cure  ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  playwrights  still  depend 
For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 

Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 

And  make  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 

Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about, 

And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 

An  epilogue  !  things  can't  go  on  without  it  1 

It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it 

"  Young  man,"  cries  one,  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover,) 

"  Alas,  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over  ; 

Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I; 

Your  brother  Doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try." 

"  What,  I  !  dear  sir,"  the  Doctor  interposes  : 

"What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses  I 

No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain  ; 

To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick  Lane. 

*  The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at  Oxford,  de 
ferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour.  What  is  here  offered  owe* 
•Ul  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the  actress  who  spoke  it 

II  —  1 


1 64  GOLDS  Ml  TITS  PLAYS. 

Go  ask  your  manager." — "Who?  me !    Your  pardon 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden." 
Our  author's  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance^ 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 
As  some  unhappy  wight  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  pit  door  stands  elbowing  away, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 
He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 
His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since  then,  unhelped,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
"To  *bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm," 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Natured  Man. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES   OF  A  NIGHT. 
A  COMEDY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,    LL.D. 

jjEAR  SIR, — By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you, 
I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself. 
It  may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the  public  that  I 
have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may 
serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform  them,  that  the  greatest 
wit  may  be  found  in  a  character,  without  impairing  the  most  un- 
affected piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiality  to 
this  performance.  The  undertaking  a  Comedy,  not  merely  senti- 
mental, was  very  dangerous  :  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this  piece 
in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so.  However,  I  ventured 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


to  trust  it  to  the  public  ;  and,  though  it  was  necessarily  delayed  till 
late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  sincere  Friend  and  Admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 
Cast  of  the  characters  at  Covtnt  Garden  in  1773. 

Diggory-    •    -    -  MR.  SAUNDERS. 


MEN. 


Str  Charles  Mar  low 


MR.  GARDNER. 
Young  Marlow  (kis  son) 

MR.  LEWIS. 
Hardcastle  •    •    .  MR.  SHUTER. 

Hastings      ...  MR.  DUBELLAMY. 

Tony  Lumfkin     -  MR.  QUICK. 


WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Hardcastk  -  MRS.  GREEN. 
Miss  Hardcastle  •  MRS.  BUCKLEY. 
Miss  Neville    •    •  MRS.  KNIVETON. 
Maid    ....  Miss  WILLIAMS. 
Landlord,  Servants,  &>c. 


PROLOGUE, 

BY  DAVID   GARRICK,    ESQ. 

Enter  MR.  WOODWARD,  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a  handkerchief 

to  his  eyes. 
JXCUSE  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I  can't  yet  speak, — 

I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week. 

"'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,"  good  masters. 

a  I've  that  within  " — for  which  there  are  no  plasters  1 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying  ? 
The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying  1 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 
For  as  a  play'r,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop  | 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread— 
I'd  rather — but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed. 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed  I 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead,  to  all  intents ; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments  f 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 


itib  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

What  shall  we  do  ? — If  Comedy  forsake  us, 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us: 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fixed  my  face  and  eye— • 
With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  means, 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes) 
Thus  I  begin — "All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ignorance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand  : 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip  :  who  trips  may  stumble^ 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble." 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me  ; 
To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill, 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 
He,  in  Five  Draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potions 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assured, 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured : 
But  desperate  the  Doctor's  and  her  case  is, 
If  you  reject  the  dose  and  make  wry  faces. 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  givet. 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree  ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee. 
The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 

ACT  L 

SCENE — A  Chamber  in  an  Old-fashioned  House. 
Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  MR.   HARDCASTLK. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  very  particular.     Is 
there  a  creature  in  the  whole  country  but  ourselves,  that  does  not 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  167 

take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then,  to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ? 
There's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbour,  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go 
to  take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hard.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affectation  to  last  them 
>he  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  London  cannot  keep  its  own 
fools  at  home  !  In  my  time,  the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly 
among  us,  but  now  they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach.  Its 
fopperies  come  down  not  only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the 
very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times  indeed  ;  you  have 
been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a  long  year.  Here  we  live  in 
an  old  rumbling  mansion  that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn, 
but  that  we  never  see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs. 
Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing 
master ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince 
Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I  hate  such  old-fashioned 
jumpery. 

Hard.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that's  old  :  old  friends, 
old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old  wines ;  and  I  believe, 
Dorothy  (taking  her  hand),  yo.u'll  own  I  have  been  pretty  fond  of 
an  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Lord,  Mr.  Hard  castle,  you're  for  ever  at  your 
Dorothys  aud  your  old  wives.  You  may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be 
ao  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me  by 
more  than  one  good  year.  Add  twenty  to  twenty,  and  make 
.noney  of  that. 

Hard.  Let  me  see;  twenty  added  to  twenty  makes  just  fift\ 
aid  seven. 

Mrs.  Hard.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  I  was  but  twenty  when 
i  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony,  that  I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my 
drst  husband ;  and  he's  not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hard.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. — Ay,  you  have 
taught  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Hard.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a  good  fortune. 
My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning.  I  don't  think  a  boy  wants 
jauch  Icarnir  -  to  spend  fifteen  hundred  a  year. 


$68  GOLDSMITH'S  flA  PS. 

Hard.  Learning,  quotha!  a  mere  composition  of  tricks  and 
mischief. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Humour,  my  dear ;  nothing  but  humour.  Come, 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the  boy  a  little  humour. 

Hard.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond.  If  burning  the 
footman's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids,  and  worrying  the  kittens 
be  humour,  he  has  it.  It  was  but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig 
to  the  back  of  my  chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popped 
my  bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Am  I  to  blame?  The  poor  boy  was  always  too 
sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would  be  his  death.  When  he 
comes  to  be  a  little  stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's 
Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hard.  Latin  for  him !  A  cat  and  fiddle.  No,  no ;  the  ale- 
house and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools  he'll  ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor  boy  now,  for  I 
believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among  us.  Anybody  that  looks 
in  his  face  may  see  he's  consumptive. 

Hard.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the  symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hard.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hard.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hard.  And  truly  so  am  I;  for  he  sometimes  whoops  like  a 
speaking-trumpet — (TONY,  hallooing  behind  the  scenes.) — Oh,  there 
he  goes — a  very  consumptive  figure,  truly. 

Enter  TONY,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my  charmer  ?  Won't 
you  give  papa  and  me  a  little  of  your  company,  lovee  ? 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw  evening,  my  dear ; 
you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons  expects  me 
down  every  moment.  There's  some  fun  going  forward. 

Hard.  Ay ;  the  alehouse ;  the  old  place ;  I  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  169 

Tony.  Not  so  low  neither.  There's  Dick  Muggins  the  excise- 
man, Jack  Slang,  the  horse  doctor,  little  Aminadab  that  grinds  the 
music  box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them  for  one  night  at 
least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so  much  mindj 
but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Detaining  him.)  You  shan't  go. 

Tony.  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  say  you  shan't 

Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Exit,  hauling  her  out. 

Hard,  (solus).  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only  spoil  each 
other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a  combination  to  drive  sense 
and  discretion  out  of  doors  ?  There's  my  pretty  darling  Kate  ! 
the  fashions  of  the  times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By 
living  a  year  or  two  in  town,  she's  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French 
frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence!  dressed  out  as  usual, 
ray  Kate.  Goodness  !  What  a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast 
thou  got  about  thee,  girl !  I  could  never  teach  the  fools  of  this 
age  that  the  indigent  world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings 
of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hard.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir.  You  allow  me  the 
morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner ; 
and  in  the  evening  I  put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hard.  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the  terms  of  our  agreement ; 
and,  by-the-by,  I-  believe  I  shall  have  occasion  to  try  your 
oix-ilience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend  your  meaning. 

Hard,  Then  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  expect  the  young 
gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your  husband  from  town  this  very 
day.  I  have  his  Bather's  letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is 
>et  out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly  after. 


tyo  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Miss  Hard.  Indeed  !  I  wish  I  had  known  something  of  this 
before.  Bless  me  !  how  shall  I  behave  ?  It's  a  thousand  to  one 
I  shan't  like  him  ;  our  meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a 
thing  of  business,  that  I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will  control  your  choice; 
but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old 
friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so 
often.  The  young* gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  de- 
signed for  an  employment  in  the  service  of  his  country.  I  am  told 
he's  a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hard.  Is  he  ? 

Hard.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him, 

Hard.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  (kissing  his  hand),  he's 
mine ;  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  And  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of  the  most  bashful 
and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death  again.  That 
word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest  of  his  accomplishments.  A 
reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides  in  a  breast  that 
is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues.  ^It  was  the  very  feature  in  his 
character  that  first  struck  roe. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking  features  to  catch  me,  I 
promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so  young,  so  handsome,  and  so 
everything  as  you  mention,  I  believe  he'll  do  still.  I  think  I'll 
have  him. 

Hard.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. — It's  more  than 
an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mortify  one  so? 
Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking  my  heart  at  his  indiffer- 
ence, I'll  only  break  my  glass  for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some 
newer  fashion,  and  look  out  for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hard.  Bravely  resolved  !  In  the  meantime,  I'll  go  prepare  the 
servants  for  his  reception  :  as  we  seldom  see  company,  they  want 
as  much  training  as  a  company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  (Alone).  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts  me  all  in  a 
flutter.  Young,  handsome  ;  these  he  put  last  ;  but  I  put  them 
foremost.  Sensible,  good-natured;  I  like  all  that.  But  then 
reserved  and  sheepish,  that's  much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be 
cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ? 
Yes  ;  and  can't  I  ?  but  I  vow  I'm  disposing  of  the  husband,  be- 
fore I  have  secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLB. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville,  my  dear.  Tell  me, 
Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  evening  ?  Is  there  anything  whim- 
sical about  me  ?  Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking  davs,  child  ?  am  I 
in  face  to-day  ? 

Miss  Nev.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look  again  —  bless 
me  !  —  sure  no  accident  has  happened  among  the  canary  birds  or 
the  gold  fishes.  Has  your  brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  ?  or 
has  the  last  novel  been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No  ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have  been  threatened 
—I  can  scarce  get  it  out  —  I  have  been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Nev.  And  his  name— 

Miss  Hard.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Nev.  Indeed  I 

Miss  Hard.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Nev.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Hastings, 
my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder.  I  believe  you  must  have 
seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hard.  Never. 

Miss  Nev.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  assure  you.  Among 
women  of  reputation  and  virtue,  he  is  the  modestest  man  alive  ; 
but  his  acquaintance  give  him  a  very  different  character  among 
creatures  of  another  stamp  ;  you 

Miss  Hard.  An  odd  ~v 
to  manage  him 


I7«  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS, 

but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own 
affair,  my  dear  ?  has  my  mother  been  courting  you  for  my  brother 
Tony  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Nev.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our  agreeable  tefe-h- 
tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred  tender  things,  and  setting 
off  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very  pink  of  perfection. 

Miss  Hard.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she  actually  thinks 
him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no  small  temptation.  Besides,  as 
she  has  the  sole  management  of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see  hei 
unwilling  to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Nev.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly  consists  in  jewels 
is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But  at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings 
be  but  constant,  I  make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last 
However,  I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son  ;  and 
she  never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hard.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly.  I  could  almosi 
love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Nev.  It  is  a"  good-natured  creature  at  bottom ;  and  I'm 
sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  anybody  but  himself.  BUT 
my  aunt's  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon's  walk  round  the  improve 
ments.  Allons  !  Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hard.  "  Would  it  were  bed-time,  and  all  were  well." 

[Exeunt 

SCENE — An  Alehouse  Room. 

Sei>eral  shabby  fetiows  with  punch  and  tobacco.     TONY  at  the  hea.i 
of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  a  mallet  in  his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea !  hurrea !  hurrea  !  bravo ! 

First  Fel.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song.  The  'squire  is 
going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 

Omnes.  Ay,  a  song  !  a  song  ! 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I  made  upon  this 
alehouse,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 
Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning) 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 


SHh   STOOPS  TO  CONQUER, 


Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  qui's,  and  their  quae's,  and  their  quods, 

They  re  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  torolL 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinfuL 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 
And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever  ! 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons  ; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 
•       Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll 

Omnes.  Bravo  !  bravo  ! 

First  Pel.  The  'squire  has  got  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fel.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays  he  never  gives  us 
nothing  that's  low. 

Third  Fel.  O  d  -  any  thing  that's  low,  I  cannot  bear  it 

Fourth  Fel.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel  thing  at  any  time  : 
if  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a  concatentation  accordingly. 

Third  Fel.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master  Muggins.  What, 
'.hough  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman 
for  all  that  May  this  be  my  poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but 
to  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes  ;  '  Water  parted,'  or  '  The  minuet 
n  Ariadne.' 

Second  Fel.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'squire  is  not  come  to  his  own  ( 
It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans  within  ten  miles  round  of 
him. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang  ;  I'd  then  show  what 
it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fel.  O,  he  takes  after  his  own  father  for  that.    To  be 


174  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  YS. 

sure  old  'Squire  Lumpkin  was  the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my 
eyes  on.  Foi  winding  the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a 
hare,  or  a  wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in  the 
place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls,  in  the  whole 
county. 

Tony.  Ecod !  and  when   I'm  of  age,  I'll  be  no  bastard,  I  pro- 
mise you.     I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  and  the  miller's 
grey  mare  to  begin  with.    But  come,  my  boys,  drink  about  and  be 
merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning.   Well,  Stingo,  what's  the  matter? 
Enter  LANDLORD. 

Land.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise  at  the  door. 
They  have  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest ;  and  they  are  talking 
something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the  gentleman 
that's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do  they  seem  to  be  Lon- 
doners? 

Land.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily  like  French- 
men. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I'll  set  them  right 
in  a  twinkling.  (Exit  LANDLORD).  Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be 
good  enough  company  for  you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I'll 
be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon.  [Exeunt  Mob. 

Tony  (alone).  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me  whelp  and 
hound  this  half-year.  Now  if  I  pleased,  I  could  be  so  revenged 
upon  the  old  grumbletonian  !  But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid  of  what? 
I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten 
me  out  of  that  if  he  can. 

Enter  LANDLORD  conducting  MARLOW  and  HASTINGS. 

Afar.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we  had  of  it ! 
We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across  the  country,  and  we 
have  come  above  threescore. 

Hast.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable  reserve  of 
yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Mar.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay  myself  under  an 
obligation  to  every  one  I  meet,  and  often  stand  the  chance  of  an 


SHE  STCOPS  TO  CONQUER.  175 

Hast.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to  receive  any 
answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told  you  have  been  in- 
quiring for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle  in  these  parts.  Do  you  know  what 
part  of  the  country  you  are  in  ? 

Hast.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank  you  for  infor- 
mation. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hast.   No,  sir ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us — 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road  you  are 
going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came,  the  first  thing 
I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that — you  have  lost  your  way. 

Mar.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  thaU 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  the  place 
from  whence  you  came  ? 

Mar.  That's  not  necessary  toward  directing  us  where  we  are 
to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is  all  fair,  you 
know. — Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same  Hardcastle  a  cross- 
Drained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical  fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a 
i laughter,  and  a  pretty  son? 

Hast.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ;  but  he  has  the  family 
you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping,  talkative  may- 
pole ;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable  youth,  that  everybody 
is  fond  of? 

Mar.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The  daughter  is  said  to 
be  well-bred,  and  beautiful;  the  son  an  awkward  booby,  reared 
up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's  apron-strings. 

'Tony.  He-he-hem  ! — Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to  tell  you  is, 
that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hast.  Unfortunate  ! 

Tony.  It's  a  d d  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  dangerous  way. 

Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  !  (  Winking 
upm  the  LANDLORD.)  Mr.  Hardcastle's  of  Quagmire  Marsh  ?  you 
understand  me? 


r 76  GOLDSMITHS  PLAVS. 

Land.  Master  Hardcastle's !   lack-a-daisy,  my  master 
come  a  deadly  deal  wrong  !     When  you  came  the   bo 
the  hill,  you  should  have  crossed  down  Squash  Lane. 

Mar.  Crossed  down  Squash  Lane  ! 

Land.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward,  till  you  came  to 
four  roads. 

Mar.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet  ? 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one  of  them. 

Mar.  O,  sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  sideways,  till 
you  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common ;  there  you  must  look  sharp 
for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  Farmer 
Murrain's  barn.  Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to 
the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right-about  again, 
till  you  find  out  the  old  mill 

Mar.  Zounds,  man  !  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the  longitude  ! 

Hast.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Mar.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception ;  though  per- 
haps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Land.  Alack,  master  1  we  have  but  one  spare  bed  in  the  whole 
house. 

Tony.  And,  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken  up  by  three  lodgers 
already.  (After  a  fause,  in  which  the  rest  seem  disconcerted.}  I  have 
it.  Don't  you  think,  Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate 
the  gentlemen  by  the  fireside,  with — three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Hast.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Mar.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Tony .  You  do,  do  you  ? — then,  let  me  see — what  if  you  go  on 
a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck's  Head  ;  the  old  Buck's  Head,  on  the 
Kill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county? 

Hast.  O  ho  !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for  this  night, 
however. 

Land.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  Sure,  you  ben't  sending  them  to  your 
father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out.  (To  them.) 
You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward,  till  vou  come  to  a 


Sff£  STOOPS  TO  COtfQUEtt. 


large  old  house  by  the  road  side.  You'll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns 
over  the  door.  That's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard  and  call 
stoutly  about  you. 

Hast.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants  can't  miss  the 
way  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  but  I  tell  you,  though,  the  landlord  is  rich,  and 
going  to  leave  off  business  ;  so  he  wants  to  be  thought  a  gentle- 
man, saving  your  presence,  he  !  he  !  He'll  be  for  giving  you  his 
company  ;  and,  ecod  !  if  you  mind  him,  he'll  persuade  you  that 
nis  mother  was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Land.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  keeps  as 
good  wines  and  beds  as  any  man  in  the  whole  country. 

Mar,  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall  want  no  further 
connection.  We  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  straight  forward,  I'll  just  step  myself,  and  show 
you  a  piece  of  the  way.  {To  the  Landlord.}  Mum  ! 

Land.  Ah  !  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleasant  —  d  -  d 
mischievous  fool.  \Lxeunt. 

ACT  IL 

SCENE  —  An  Old-fashioned  House. 
Enter  HARDCASTLE,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkward  SERVANTS. 

Hard.  WELL,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the  table  exercise  I 
have  been  teaching  you  these  three  days.  You  all  know  your 
posts  and  your  places,  and  can  show  that  you  have  been  used  to 
good  company,  without  ever  stirring  from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hard.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop  out  and 
stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted  rabbits  in  a  warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from  the  barn,  are  to 
make  a  show  at  the  side-table  ;  and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have 
advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair. 
But  you're  not  to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 
Take  your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger  ;  and  from  your  head, 

it 


178  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

you  blockhead  you.    See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.    They're 
a  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that's  no  great  matter. 

Dig.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to  hold  my  hands 
this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for  the  militia.  And  so  being 
upon  drill 

Hard.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory.  You  must  be 
all  attention  to  the  guests.  You  must  hear  us  talk,  and  not  think 
of  talking ;  you  must  see  us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking  : 
you  must  see  us  eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Dig.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's  perfectly  unpossible. 
Whenever  Diggory  sees  eating  going  forward,  ecod !  he's  always 
wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hard.  Blockhead !  Is  not  a  bellyful  in  the  kitchen  as  good 
as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlour?  Stay  your  stomach  with  that  re- 
flection. 

Dig.  Ecod  !  I  thank  your  worship,  111  make  a  shift  to  stay  my 
stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in  the  pantry. 

Hard.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative. — Then  if  I  happen  to 
say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at  table,  you  must  not  al! 
burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you  made  part  of  the  company. 

Dig.  Then  ecod !  your  worship  must  not  tell  the  story  of  Old 
Grouse  in  the  gun-room  :  I  can't  help  laughing  at  that — he !  he  ! 
he  ! — for  the  soul  of  me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty 
years — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  story  is  a  good  one.  Well,  honest 
Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that — but  still  remember  to  be  atten- 
tive. Suppose  one  of  the  company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine, 
how  will  you  behave?  A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please.  (To 
Diggory) — Eh,  why  don't  you  move  ? 

Dig.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage  till  I  see  the 
eatables  and  drnkabies  brought  upon  the  table,  and  then  I'm  as 
bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hard.  What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

Firrt  Sen:  I'm  not  to  leave  this  place. 

Se&nd  &rv.  I'm  sure  il's  no  \  lace  of  mint, 

Third  SJTI.  Nor  mine,  for  s 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  179 


Dig.  Wauns  !  and  I'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hard.  You  numbskulls  !  and  so  while,  like  your  betters,  you 
are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must  be  starved.  O  you 

dunces  !  I  find  I  must  begin  all  over  again But  don't  I  hear 

a  coach  drive  into  the  yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you  blockheads. 
I'll  go  in  the  meantime  and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty  re 
ception  at  the  gate.  [Exit  HARDCASTLR 

Dig.  By  the  elevens  !  my  place  is  gone  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  everywhere. 

first  Serv.  Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 

Second  Sent.  My  place  is  to  be  nowhere  at  all ;  and  so  I'ze  go 
about  my  business. 

[Exeunt  SERVANTS,  running  about,  as  if  frightened, 
different  ways. 

Enter  SERVANT  with  candles,  showing  in  MARLOW  and  HASTINGS. 

Serv.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome  !     This  way. 

Hast.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  welcome  once 
more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room  and  a  good  fire. 
Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking  house  ;  antique,  but  creditable. 

Mar.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having  first  ruined 
the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last  comes  to  levy  contri- 
butions as  an  inn. 

Hast.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to  pay  all 
these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  sideboard,  or  a  marble 
chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a 
reckoning  confoundedly. 

Mar.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places;  the  only 
difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly  for  luxuries,  in  bad 
inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hast.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  theta.  In  truth,  I 
have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the 
world,  with  your  natural  good  sense,  and  your  many  opportunities, 
could  never  yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Mar.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me,  George,  where 
could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you  talk  of?  My  life  has 
been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or  an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that 

\2 2 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


lovely  part  of  the  creation  that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence.  I 
don't  know  that  I  was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single 
modest  woman,  except  my  mother.  —  But  among  females  of  anothei 
class  you  know  - 

Hast.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough  of  all  con 
science. 

Mar.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hast.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation  I  never  snw 
such  an  idiot,  such  a  trembler  ;  you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if 
you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

Mar.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want  to  steal  out  of  the 
room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution  to  break  the  ice, 
and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I  don't  know  how,  a  single- 
glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my  resolution. 
An  impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I'll  be  hanged 
if  a  modest  man  can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hast.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to  them,  that  I 
have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn,  or  even  a 
college  bedmaker  — 

Mar.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to  them  ;  they  freeze, 
they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of  a  comet,  or  a  burning  moun- 
tain, or  some  such  bagatelle  ;  but  to  me,  a  modest  woman,  dressed 
out  in  all  her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole 
creation. 

Hast.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can  you  evei 
expect  to  marry  ? 

Mar.  Never  ;  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes,  my  bride 
were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like  an  eastern  bride- 
groom, one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a  wife  he  never  saw  before, 
it  might  be  endured.  But  to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal 
courtship,  together  with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers,  and 
cousins,  and  at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of, 
"Madam,  will  you  marry  me?"  No,  no;  that's  a  strain  much 
above  me,  I  assure  you. 

Hast.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  behaving  to  the 
lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  request  of  your  father  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUE&.  181 

Mar.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.  Bow  very  low  :  answer 
yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands —  But  for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I 
shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face  till  I  see  my  father's  again. 

Hast.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a  friend,  can  be 
so  cool  a  lover. 

Mar.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief  inducement 
down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding  your  happiness,  not 
my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you ;  as 
my  friend  you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let  honour  do  the  rest. 

Hast.  My  dear  Marlow  !  But  I'll  suppress  the  emotion.  Were 
I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off  a  fortune,  you  should  be 
the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But 
Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her 
deceased  father's  consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Mar.  Happy  man  1  You  have  talents  and  art  to  captivate  any 
woman.  I'm  doomed  to  adore  the  sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with 
the  only  part  of  it  I  despise.  This  stammer  in  my  address,  and 
this  awkward  unprepossessing  visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit 
me  to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one  of  the 
duchesses  of  Drury  Lane.  Pshaw !  this  fellow  here  to  interrupt  us. 
Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily  welcome.  Which 
is  Mr.  Marlow?  Sir,  you  are  heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my 
way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I 
like  to  give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at  my  gate. 
I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunk*s  taken  care  of. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  servants  already. 
(To  him.)  We  approve  your  caution  and  hospitality,  sir.  (To 
Hastings.)  I  have  been  thinking,  George,  of  changing  our  travelling 
dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of 
mine. 

Hard.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  ceremony  in  thii 
house. 

Hast.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you're  right :  the  first  blow  is  half  the 
battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign  with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hard.  Mr.  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings — gentlemen — pray,  be  under 


ISOLDSMITITS  PLA  VS. 


no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  gentlemen.  You 
may  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Mar.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too  fiercely  at  first, 
we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over.  I  think  to  reserve 
the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow,  puts  me  in  mind 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  we  went  to  besiege  Denain. 
He  first  summoned  the  garrison  — 

Mar.  Don't  you  think  the  venire  for  waistcoat  will  do  with  the 
plain  brown? 

Hard.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of 
about  five  thousand  men  — 

Hast.  I  think  not  :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but  very  poorly. 

Hard.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he  summoned 
the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men  — 

Mar.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men,  well 
appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and  other  implements  of  war. 
Now,  says  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood 
next  to  him  —  you  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks  —  I'll  pawn 
my  dukedom,  says  he,  but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a 
drop  of  blood.  So  — 

Mar.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a  glass  of  punch  in 
the  meantime,  it  would  help  us  to  carry  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hard.  Punch,  sir  !  (Aside.)  This  is  the  most  unaccountable 
kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 

Mar.  Yes,  sir,  punch.  A  glass  of  warm  punch,  after  our  journey, 
will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know. 

Enter  ROGER  with  a  cup. 

Hard.  Here's  a  cup,  sir. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty  Hall,  will  only  let 
ns  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hard.  (Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find  it  to  your  mind.  I 
have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the 
ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  183 

sir?    Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance. 
(Drinks.) 

Mar.  (Aside.)  A  very  impudent  fellow  this  !  but  he's  a  cha- 
racter, and  I'll  humour  him  a  little.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 
(Drinks.)  , 

Hast.  (Aside.)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his  company, 
and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper,  before  he  has  learned  to  be  a 
gentleman. 

Mar.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old  friend,  I  suppose 
you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in  this  part  of  the  country.  Warm 
work,  now  and  then,  at  elections,  I  suppose  ? 

Hard.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work  over.  Since  our 
betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  electing  each  other,  there 
is  no  business  "  for  us  that  sell  ale." 

Hast.  So  then  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I  find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least  There  was  a  time,  indeed,  I  fretted 
myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government,  like  other  people,  but 
finding  myself  every  day  grow  more  angry,  and  the  government 
growing  no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more 
trouble  my  head  about  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn  than  about 
Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs,  and  drinking  below, 
with  receiving  your  friends  within,  and  amusing  them  without, 
you  lead  a  good  pleasant  bustling  life  of  it 

Hard.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's  certain.  Half  th« 
differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this  very  parlour. 

Mar.  (After  drinking.)  And  you  have  an  argument  in  your  cup, 
old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little  philosophy. 

Mar.  (Aside)  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  an 
innkeeper's  philosophy ! 

Hast.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  attack  them  on 
every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason  manageable,  you  attack  it 
with  your  philosophy ;  if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack 
them  with  this.  Here's  your  health,  my  philosopher.  (Drinks.) 

Hard.   Good,  very  good,   thank  you— ha  1   hal   ha  I     Your 


184  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

-   .      . .    h-    •  i    •  ii ..       i  ,          ,_  .,— —  .  I.,-,     i.   .-—-...•  ii  ••••^•••^^ 

generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene,  when  he  fought 
the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You  shall  hear. 

Mar.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe  ifs  almost 
time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your  philosophy  got  in  the 
house  for  supper? 

Hard.  For  supper,  sir !  (Aside.)  Was  ever  such  a  request  made 
to  a  man  in  his  own  house  ! 

Mar.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an  appetite.  I  shall 
make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hard.  (Aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never  my  eyes  beheld. 
(To  him.)  Why  really,  sir,  as  for  supper,  I  can't  well  tell.  My 
Dorothy  and  the  cook-maid  settle  these  things  between  them,  1 
leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Mar.  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By-the-by,  I  believe  they  are  in  actual  con- 
sultation upon  what's  for  supper  this  moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Mar.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of  their  privy-council. 
It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I  travel  I  always  choose  to  regulate 
my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook  be  called.  No  offence,  I  hope, 
sir? 

Hard.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I  don't  know  how ;  our 
Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not  very  communicative  upon  these 
occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of 
the  house. 

Hast.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I  ask  it  as  a 
favour.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  (To  HARDCASTLZ,  ivho  looks  at  them  with  surprise.)  Sir, 
he's  very  right,  and  it's  my  way  to6. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here.  Here,  Roger, 
bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's  supper :  I  believe  it's  drawn 
out — Your  manner,  Mr.  Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle, 
Colonel  Wallop.  It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of 
his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it 

Re-enter  ROGER. 
Hast.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope !     His  uncle  a  colonel  J 


SffE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  185 

we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a  justice  of  peace.    Bu 
let's  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  (Perusing.)  What's  here?  " For  the  first  course ;  for  the 
second  course ;  for  the  dessert."  The  devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we 
have  brought  down  the  whole  Joiners'  company,  or  the  corpora 
tion  of  Bedford,  to  eat  up  such  a  supper  ?  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hast.  But  let's  hear  it. 

Mar.  (Reading.)  "  For  the  first  course  at  the  top,  a  pig,  and 
pruin  sauce." 

Hast.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Mar.  And  damn  your  pruin  sauce,  say  I. 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry,  pig  with 
pruin  sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Mar.  "  At  the  bottom  a  calf  s  tongue  and  brains." 

Hast.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my  good  sir,  I  don't 
like  them. 

Mar.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  themselves. 

Hard.  (Aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds  me.  (To  them.) 
Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please. 
Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Mar.  Item.  "  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and  sausages,  a  Floren- 
tine, a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish  of  tiff — taff — taffety  cream." 

Hast.  Confound  your  made  dishes ;  I  shall  be  as  much  at  a 
loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow  dinner  at  the  French 
ambassador's  table.  I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hard.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing  you  like,  but 
if  there  be  anything  you  have  a  particular  fancy  to — 

Mar.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  exquisite,  that  any 
one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another.  Send  us  what  you  please. 
So  much  for  supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and 
properly  taken  care  o£ 

Hard.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You  shall  not  stir 
a  step. 

Mar^  Leave  that  to  you  I  I  protest,  sir,  YOU  must  excuse  me, 
I  always  look  to  these  things  myselt 


186  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Hard.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself  easy  on  that 
head. 

Mar.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it  (Aside.)  A  very  trouble- 
some fellow  this,  as  I  ever  met  with. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  attend  you.  (Aside.") 
This  may  be  modern  modesty,  but  I  never  saw  anything  look  so 
like  old-fashioned  impudence. 

[Exeunt  MARLOW  and  HARDCASTLE. 

Hast.  (Alone.}  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities  begin  to  grow 
troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at  those  assiduities  which 
are  meant  to  please  him? — Ha!  what  do  I  see?  Miss  Neville, 
by  all  that's  happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  Hastings  !  To  what  unexpected  good 
fortune,  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  ascribe  this  happy  meeting  ? 

Hast,  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as  I  could  never 
have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Constance  at  an  inn. 

Miss  Nev.  An  inn  !  sure  you  mistake  :  my  aunt,  my  guardian, 
lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to  think  this  house  an  inn  ? 

Hast.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I  came  down,  and 
I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure  you.  A  young 
fellow,  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us 
hither. 

Miss  Nev.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hopeful  cousin's 
tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hast.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you  ?  he  of  whom  I  have 
such  just  apprehensions  ? 

Miss  Nev.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  I  assure  you. 
You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how  heartily  he  despises  me.  My 
aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and 
actually  begins  to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hast.  Thou  dear  dissembler !  You  must  know,  my  Constance, 
I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportunity  of  my  friend's  visit  here 
to  get  admittance  into  the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us 
down  are  now  fatigued  with  their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be 
refreshed ;  and  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  187 

Hastings,  we  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among 
slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Nev.  \  have  often  toM  you,  that  though  ready  to  obey 
you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  behind  with  reluctance. 
The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  India  director, 
*nd  chiefly  consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time  per- 
suading my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them.  I  fancy  I'm  very  near 
succeeding.  The  instant  ihcj  are  put  into  my  possession,  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hast.  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is  all  I  desire.  In  the 
meantime,  my  friend  Marlow  must  not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I 
know  the  strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if  abruptly 
informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan 
was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neii.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the  deception?  Miss 
Hardcastle  is  juse  returned  from  walking;  what  if  we  still  con- 
tinue to  deceive  him? — This,  this  way \They  confer. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease  me  beyond 
bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill  manners  to  leave  me 
alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself  but  his  old-fashioned  wife 
on  my  back.  They  talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too  £  and  then. 
1  suppose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the 
family. — What  have  we  got  here? 

Hast.  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratulate  you  ! — The  most 
fortunate  accident ! — .Who  do  you  think  is  just  alighted  ? 

Mar.  Cannot  guess. 

Hast.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville, 
tiive  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Constance  Neville  to  your 
.1  quaintance.  Happening  to  dine  in  the  neighbourhood,  they 
called  on  their  return  to  take  fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle 
has  just  stepped  into  the  next  room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant. 
'V'asn't  it  lucky?  eh  ! 

Mar.  (Aside.)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of  all  conscience, 
MR!  here  comes  something  to  complete  ray  embarrassment. 

Hast.  Well,  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  world? 


i88  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Mar,  Oh  f  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most  joyful  encounter.  But 
our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are  in  disorder — what  if  we  should 
postpone  the  happiness  till  to-morrow  ? — To-morrow  at  her  own 
house.  It  will  be  every  bit  as  convenient,  and  rather  more  respect 
ful.  To-morrow  let  it  be.  [.Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Ncv.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony  will  displease  her 
The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show  the  ardour  of  your  impatience. 
Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to 
see  her. 

Mar.  Oh  !  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  ? — Hem  !  hem  ' 
Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You  are  to  assist  me,  you  know.  1 
shall  be  confoundedly  ridiculous.  Yet,  hang  it !  I'll  take  courage. 
Hem! 

Hast.  Pshaw,  man!  it's  but  the  first  plunge,  and  all's  over.  She '• 
but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Mar.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most  to  encounter. 
Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hast.  (Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hard  castle,  Mr.  Marlow.  I'u 
proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of  such  merit  together,  that  onl\ 
want  to  know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside)  Now  for  meeting  my  modest  gentlemar. 
with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his  own  manner.  (After  a  pans, , 
in  which  he  appears. very  uneasy  and  disconcerted.')  I'm  glad  of  you; 
safe  arrival,  sir.  I'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Mar.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some.  Yes,  madam. 
a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be  sorry — madam — or  rather 
glad  of  any  accidents — that  are  so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem  ! 

Hast.  (To  him.)  You  never  spoke  better  in  your  whole  life 
Keep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir.  You  that  have  seen  so 
much  of  the  finest  company,  can  find  little  entertainment  in  an  ob 
scure  corner  of  the  country. 

Mar.  (Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed,  in  the  world, 
madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  company.  I  have  been  but  an 
observer  upon  life,  madam,  while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Nev.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  .vay  to  enjoy  it  at  last 


SffB  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  l«9 

Hast.  {To  him.)  Cicero  never  spoke  better.  Once  more  and  you 
are  confirmed  in  assurance  for  ever. 

Mar.  (To  him.)  Hem !  stand  by  me,  then,  and  when  I'm  down, 
throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up  again. 

Miss  Hard.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life  were,  I  fear,  disa 
greeably  employed,  since  you  must  have  had  much  more  to  censure 
than  to  approve. 

Mar.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing  to  be  amused 
The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an  object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hast.  (To  him.)  Bravo,  bravo !  Never  spoke  so  well  in  your 
whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow 
are  going  to  be  very  good  company.  I  believe  our  being  here  will 
but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Mar.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like  your  company  01 
all  things.  (To  him.)  Zounds  !  George,  sure  you  won't  go?  hov 
can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hast.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation,  so  we'll  retire  to 
the  next  room.  (To  him.)  You  don't  consider,  man,  that  we  are  to 
manage  a  little  tete-a-tete  of  our  own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hard.  (After  a  fame.)  But  you  have  not  been  wholly  an 
observer,  I  presume,  sir,  the  ladies,  I  should  hope,  have  employed 
some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Mar.  (Relapsing  into  timidity)  Pardon  me,  madam,  I — I — I— 
as  yet  have  studied — only — to — deserve  them. 

Miss  Hard.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very  worst  way  to  obtain 
them. 

Mar.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse  only  with  the 
more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex — But  I'm  afraid  I  grow 
tiresome. 

'Miss  Hard.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing  I  like  so  much  as 
grave  conversation  myself;  I  could  hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed,  I 
have  often  been  surprised  how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  ad 
mire  those  light  airy  pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Mar.  It's a  disease of  the  mind,  madam.    Inthevarieb 

of  tastes  there  must  be  icme  who,  wanting  a  relidi        for— — un 
i       a — um. 


1 90  GOLDSMITH'S  PL  A  VS. 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There  must  be  some  who, 
wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures,  pretend  to  despise  what  they 
are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Mar.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better  expressed.  And 
I  can't  help  observing a 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  Who  could  ever  suppose  this  fellow  impu- 
dent upon  some  occasions  !  (To  him.)  You  were  going  to  observe, 
sir 

Mar.  I  was  observing,  madam — I  protest,  madam,  I  forget  what 
I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  (To  him.)  You  wer* 
observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hypocrisy — something  about  hy- 
pocrisy, sir. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam.  In  this,  age  of  hypocrisy  there  are  few  who, 
upon  strict  inquiry,  do — a — a — a 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad !  and  that's  more  than  I  do  myself. 

Miss  Hard.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocritical  age  there  are  few 
that  do  not  condemn  in  public  what  they  practise  in  private,  and 
think  they  pay  every  debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Mar.  True,  madam;  those  who  have  most  virtue  in  their  mouths 
have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But  I'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  in  the  least,  sir ;  there's  something  so  agree- 
able and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such  life  and  force — pray,  sir, 
go  on. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying that  there  are  some  occa- 
sions— when  a  total  want  of  courage,  madam,  destroys  all  the 

and  puts  us upon — a — a — a 

Miss  Hard.  I  agree  with  you  entirely ;  a  want  of  courage  upon 
some  occasions  assumes  the  appearance  of  ignorance,  and  betrays 
us  when  we  most  want  to  excel.  I  beg  you'll  proceed. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam  — But  I  see  Miss 
Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room.  I  would  not  intrude  for 
the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more  agreeably  entertained 
in  all  my  life.  Pray  go  on. 


ShE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  I9l 

Mar.  Yes,  madam,  I  was But  she  beckons  us  to  join  her. 

Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  attend  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Well,  then,  I'll  follow. 

Afar.  (Aside.)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  has  done  for  me. 

[Exit. 

MIJS  Hard.  (Alone.')  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  Was  there  ever  such  a  sober 
sentimental  interview?  I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in  my  face 
the  whole  time.  Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashful- 
ness,  is  pretty  well,  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried 
in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance.  If  I  could 
teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be  doing  somebody  that  I 
know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that  somebody  ? — That, 
faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY  and  Miss  NEVILLE,  followed  by  MRS.  HARDCASTLK 
and  HASTINGS. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  Cousin  Con  ?  I  wonder  you're 
not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  one's  own  relations, 
and  not  be  to  b.~me. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you  want  to  make 
me,  though  ;  but  it  won't  do.    I  tell  you,  Cousin  Con,  it  won't  do ; 
so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance,  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 
[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  back  Scene. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you  are  very  entertain- 
ing. There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as 
London,  and  the  fashions,  though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hast.  Never  there !  You  amaze  me !  From  your  air  and  man- 
ner, I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your  life  either  at  Ranelagh, 
St.  James's,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh!  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to  say  so.  We  country 
persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and 
:.-.at  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighbouring  rustics ; 
:it  who  can  have  a  manner  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the 
>  Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such  places,  where  the  nobility 
diiefly  resort  ?  All  I  can  do  is,  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 
I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous  Magazine^ 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS 


and  have  all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two 
Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane.  Pray,  how  do  you  like  this  head, 
Mr.  Hastings? 

Hast.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagk,  upon  my  word,  madam. 
Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from  a  print  in  the 
"  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  "  for  the  last  year. 

Hast.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at  the  play-house 
would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,  there  is  no  such 
thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman,  so  one  must  dress  a  little  par- 
ticular, or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hast.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam,  in  any  dress. 

[Bowing. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing  when  I  have  such  a 
piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle?  all  I  can  say  will 
never  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often 
wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was 
bald  to  plaster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

Hast.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among  the  ladies  there  are 
none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer  was  ?  Why,  with 
his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw  off 
his  wig,  to  convert  it  into  a  tete  for  my  own  wearing 

Hast.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may  wear  what  you  please, 
and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you  take  to  be  the 
most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hast.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode  ;  but  I'm  told  the 
ladies  mean  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing  winter.  • 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously.  Then  I  shall  be  too  young  for  the  fashion. 

Hast.  No  lady  now  begins  to  put  on  jewels  till  she's  past  forty. 
For  instance,  miss  there,  in  a  polite  circle,  would  be  considered  as 
a  child,  as  a  mere  maker  of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks  herself  as  much  a 
woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels,  as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  193 

Hast.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that  young  gentleman,  a 
brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted  to  each  other 
Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a-day. 
as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already.  (To  them.)  Well,  Tony, 
child,  what  soft  things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance 
this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things ;  but  that  it's  very  hard 
to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod  !  I've  not  a  place  in  the  house 
now  that's  left  to  myself,  but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear ;  he's  in  anothei 
story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Nev.  There's  something  generous  in  my  cousin's  manner. 
He  falls  out  before  faces  to  be  forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  d d  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you  think  they're  like 
each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr.  Hastings  ?  The  Blenkinsoj 
mouth  to  a  T.  They're  of  a  size  too.  Back  to  ba<  k,  my  pretties 
that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you.    (Measuring  \ 

Miss  Nev.  O  lud  !  he  has  almost  cracked  my  head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  the  monster!  For  shame,  Tony.  You  a  man, 
md  behave  so  ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod  !  I'll  not  bi 
made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I'm  to  get  for  the 
pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ?  I  that  have  rocked  you 
in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon !  Did 
not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  1 
prescribe  for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt  wa^ 
operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod  !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have  been  dosiru 
me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone  through  every  receipt  ir 
the  Complete  Housewife  ten  times  over ;  and  you  have  thought 
of  coursing  me  through  Quincey,  next  spring.  But,  ecod  1  I  tel< 
you,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

«3 


194  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  oil  for  your  good,  viper  ?  Wasn't  il  all 
for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  and  my  good  alone,  then. 
Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits.  If  I'm  to  have  any  good, 
.let  it  come  of  itself ;  not  to  keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That's  false;  I  never  see  you  when  you're  in  spirits. 
No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  alehouse  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to 
be  delighted  with  your  agreeable  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster ! 

Tdny.  Ecod!  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wildest  of  the 
two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I  see  he  wants  to  break 
my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

Hast.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the  young  gentleman 
a  little.  I'm  certain  I  can  persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  must  retire.     Come,  Constance,  my  love. 

You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretchedness  of  my  situation  :  was 

ever  poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking, 

undutiful  boy  ?      [Exeunt  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

HASTINGS  and  TONY. 

Tony.  (Singing.) 

**  There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 
And  fain  would  have  his  will. 

Rang  do  didlo  dee." 

Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  comfort  of  her  heart  I 
have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an  hour  together ; 
and  they  said  they  liked  the  book  the  better  the  more  it  made 
them  cry. 

Hast.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I  find,  my  pretty 
young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hast.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing,  I  dare  answer? 
And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  so  well  as  I.  Ecod ! 
I  know  every  inch  about  her;  and  there's  not  a  more  bitter 
cantankerous  toad  in  all  Christendom. 

Host.  (Aside.}  Pretty  encouragement  this  for  a  lover  I 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that.  She  has  as 
many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt  the  first  da>'s 
breaking. 

Hast.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's  with  her  play 
mates,  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hast.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her  that  charms  me 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks  up,  and  you're 
flung  in  the  ditch. 

Hast.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little  beauty. — Yes,  yov 
must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox!  She's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun.  Ah  !  could 
you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you  might  then  talk  of 
beauty.  Ecod  !  she  has.  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as 
broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hast.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would  take  this  bittei 
bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anan ! 

Hast.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take  Miss  Neville,  and 
leave  you  to  happiness  and  your  dear  Betsy  ? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for  who  would  take 
her? 

Hast.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  engage  to  whip  he- 
off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood 
I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise  that  shall  trundle  you  oli 
in  a  twinkling,  and  maybe  get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  beside  in 
jewels  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hast.  My  dear  'squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of  my  spiri 
before  you  have  done  with  me.  (<&"£"^> 

•*  We  are  the  boys 
That  fear  no  noise 
Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar.* 

[Exeunt, 


196  GOLDSlflTffS  PLATS. 

ACT  IIL 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  alone. 

Hard.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles  mean  by  recom- 
mending his  son  as  the  modestest  young  man  in  town  ?  To  me 
he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of  brass  that  ever  spoke  with 
a  tongue.  He  has  taken  possession  of  the  easy-chair  by  the 
fireside  already.  He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlour,  and 
desired  me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how 
his  impudence  affects  my  daughter.  She  will  certainly  be  shocked 
at  it 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE,  plainly  dressed. 

Hard.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed  your  dress,  as  I 
bid  you  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was  no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hard.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in  obeying  your  com- 
mands, that  I  take  care  to  observe  them  without  ever  debating 
their  propriety. 

Hard.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you  some  cause,  par- 
ticularly when  I  recommended  my  modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a 
lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hard.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something  extraordinary, 
and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the  description. 

Hard.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  !  He  has  quite  con- 
founded all  my  faculties ! 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it :  and  a  man  of  the 
world  too ! 

Hard.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad — what  a  fool  was  I,  to  think 
a  young  man  could  learn  modesty  by  travelling.  He  might  as 
soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hard.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hard.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company  and  a  French 
dancing-master. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa !  A  French  dancing-master 
could  never  have  taught  him  that  timid  look — that  awkward 
address — that  bashful  manner. 

Hard.  Whose  look  ?  whose  manner,  child  ? 


SffE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


•Miss  Hard.  Mr.  Mallow's :  his  mauvaise  hontc,  his  timidity 
struck  me  at  the  first  sight 

Hard.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you ;  for  I  think  him  one 
of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that  ever  astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally  1  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
modest. 

Hard.  And  can  you  be  serious  ?  I  never  saw  such  a  bouncing 
swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born. — Bully  Dawson  was  but  a 
fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Surprising  !  He  met  me  with  a  respectful  bow,  a 
stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hard.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly  air,  and  a  fami- 
liarity that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hard.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and  respect ;  cen- 
sured the  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired  the  prudence  of  girls  that 
never  laughed  ;  tired  me  with  apologies  for  being  tiresome ;  tnen 
left  the  room  with  a  bow,  and  "  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world 
detain  you."- 

Hard.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his  life  before ; 
asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited  for  an  answer ;  inter- 
rupted my  best  remarks  with  some  silly  pun  ;  and  when  I  was  in 
my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he 
asked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he 
asked  your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch  ! 

Miss  Hard.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mistaken. 

Hard.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself,  I'm  determined  he 
shall  never  have  my  consent.  • 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take  him,  he  shall 
never  have  mine. 

Hard.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — to  reject  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Yes  ;  but  upon  conditions.  For  if  you  should  finu 
him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  presuming ;  if  you  find  him  more 
respectful,  and  I  more  importunate — I  don't  know — the  fellow  is 
well  enough  for  a  man — Certainly  we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a 
horse-race  in  the  country. 

Hard.  If  we  should  find  him  so But  that's  impossible.    The 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 


first  appearance  has  done  my  business.     I'm  seldom  deceived  in 
that. 

Miss  Hafd.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good  qualities  under 
that  first  appearance. 

Hard.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside  to  her  taste,  she 
then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of  his  furniture.  With  her  a 
smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for  every 
virtue. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun  with  a  compli- 
ment to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with  a  sneer  at  my  under* 
standing  ? 

Hard.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr.  Brazen  can  find 
the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions,  he  may  please  us  both, 
perhaps. 

Miss  Hard.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken,  what  if  we  go 
to  make  farther  discoveries  ? 

Hard.  Agreed.     But  depend  on't,  I'm  in  the  right 

Miss  Hard.  And  depend  on't,  I'm  not  much  in  the  wrong. 

\Exeuntt 
Enter  TONY,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are.  My  cousin 
Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  alL  My  mother  shan't  cheat  the  poor 
souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither.  Oh  f  my  genus,  is  that  you  ? 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed  with  your  mother  ? 
I  hope  you  have  amused  herjvith  pretending  love  for  your  cousin, 
and  that  you  are  willing  to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses 
will  be  refreshed  in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to 
set  off 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your  charges  by  the  way 
(giving  the  casket)  ;  your  sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep  them  ;  and 
hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one  of  them. 

Hast.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from  your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  fibs.  I  procured 
them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer 


SffS  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  199 

in  mother's  bureau,  how  could  1  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I 
do  ? — An  honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hast.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But  to  be  plain  with  you, 
Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring  to  procure  them  from  her  aunt  this 
very  instant  If  she  succeeds,  it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way  at 
least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will  be.  But  I 
know  how  it  will  be  well  enough,  she'd  as  soon  part  with  the  only 
sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hast.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment,  when  she  finds 
she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave  me  to  manage 
that  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the  bounce  of  a  cracker. 
Zounds  !  here  they  are.  Morrice  !  prance  !  [Exit  HASTINGS. 

TONY,  MRS.  HARDCASTLE,  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me.  Such  a  girl 
as  you  want  jewels  !  It  will  be  time  enough  for  jewels,  my  dear, 
twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beauty  begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Nev.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty,  will  certainly 
improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none.  That  natural 
blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments.  Besides,  child,  jewels  are 
quite  out  at  present.  Don't  you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, my  Lady  Kill-daylight,  and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest 
of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste 
and  marcasites  back  ? 

Miss  Nev.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  somebody  that  shall  be 
n  imeless  would  like  me  best  with  all  my  little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and  then  see  if  with 
iuch  a  pair  of  eyes  you  want  any  better  sparklers.  What  do  you 
ihink,  Tony,  my  dear?  does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels  in 
your  eyes  to  set  off  her  beauty  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Nev.   My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it  would  oblige  me 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose-and- table  cut  things. 
They  would  make  you  look  like  the  Court  of  King  Solomon  at  a 


GOLDSMITHS  PLAYS. 


puppet-show.      Besides,  I  believe  I  can't  readily  come  at  them 
They  may  be  missing  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony,  (Apart  to  MRS.  HARDCASTLE.)  Then  why  don't  you  te! 
her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for  them  ?  Tell  her  they'n 
lost.  It's  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  Say  they're  lost,  and  cal. 
me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Apart  to  Tony.}  You  know,  my  dear,  I'm  onh 
keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say  they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me 
witness,  will  you  ?  He  !  he  !  he  ! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod  1  I'll  say  I  saw  them  taken  out 
with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Nev.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam.  Just  to  be 
permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then  they  may  be  locked  up 
again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear  Constance,  if  1 
could  find  them  you  should  have  them.  They're  missing,  I  assure 
you.  Lost,  for  aught  I  know  ;  but  we  must  have  patience  wherever 
they  are. 

Miss  Nev.  Ill  not  believe  it  ;  this  is  but  a  shallow  pretence  to 
deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable  to  be  so  slightly  kept 
and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss  — 

Mrs.  Hard.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If  they  be  lost,  I 
must  restore  an  equivalent  But  my  son  knows  they  are  missing. 
and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  missing,  and  not 
to  be  found  ;  I'll  take  my  oath  on't. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my  dear  ;  for  though 
we  lost  our  fortune,  yet  we  should  not  lose  our  patience.  See  me, 
how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Nev.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the  misfortunes  of 
others. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Now  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good  sense  should 
waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery.  We  shall  soon  find  them  ; 
and  in  the  meantime  you  shall  make  use  of  my  garnets  till  voui 
jewels  be  found. 

Miss  Ntv.  I  detest  garnets, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  jol 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the  world  to  set  ofl 
a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often  seen  how  well  they  look 
upon  me  :  you  shall  have  them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You  shan't  stir.  Was 
ever  anything  so  provoking,  to  mislay  my  own  jewels  and  force 
me  to  wear  her  trumpery  ? 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  garnets,  take  what 
you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own  already.  I  have  stolen 
them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your 
spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed  them  already. 
[Exit  Miss  NEVILLE.]  Zounds  !  how  she  fidgets  and  spits  about 
like  a  Catherine  wheel. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Confusion !  thieves  I  robbers !  we  are  cheated, 
plundered,  broke  open,  undone  ! 

Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter,  mamma  ?  I  hope 
nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good  family. 

Mrs.  Hard.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has  been  broken  open, 
the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm  undone. 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  By  the  la\vs,  I  never  saw 
it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I  thought  you  was  ruined  in 
earnest — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest— My  bureau  has 
been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that— ha  !  ha  1  ha  !— stick  to  that  I'll  bear  wit 
ness,  you  know  ;  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's  precious,  the  jewels 
are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  for  ever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I'm  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. — They're  gone,  I 
say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to  laugh-  -ha!  ha! 
I  know  who  took  them  well  enough — ha  I  ha  !  ha  ' 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead,  that  can't  tell  the 


203  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

difference  between  jest  and  earnest  ?   I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest, 
booby. 

Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right ;  you  must  be  in  a  bitter  passion, 
and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of  us.  I'll  bear  witness  that 
they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grained  brute,  that 
won't  hear  me  ?  Can  you  bear  witness  that  you're  no  better  than  a 
fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and 
thieves  on  the  other? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mrs.  Hard.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead  you,  and  Fll 
turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. — My  poor  niece,  what  will  be- 
come of  her !  Do  you  laugh,  you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed 
my  distress  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mrs.  Hard.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster  ?  I'll  teach  you  to 
vex  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that  (He  runs  off,  she  follow* 
him.) 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE  and  MAID. 

Miss  Hard.  What  an  unaccountable  creature  is  that  brother  of 
mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as  an  inn — ha  1  ha !  I  don't 
wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentleman,  as  you 
passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked  me  if  you  were  the  barmaid. 
He  mistook  you  for  the  barmaid,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'm  resolved  to  keep  up 
the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple,  how  do  you  like  my  present 
dress?  Don't  you  think  I  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the 
Beaux's  Stratagem  ? 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  *ears  in  the 
country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

Miss  Hard.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not  remember  my  face 
or  person  ? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hard.  I  vow  I  thought  so ;  for  though  we  spoke  for  some 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  203 

time  together,  yet  his  fears  were  such  that  he  never  once  looked 
up  during  the  interview.  Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would 
have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in  this  mis- 
take? 

Miss  Hard.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen,  and  that  is  no 
small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I 
shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaintance,  and  that's  no  small  victory 
gained  over  one  who  never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  our 
sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard, 
and,  like  an  invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine  the  giant's 
force  before  I  offer  to  combat 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and  disguise 
your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he  has  already  mis- 
taken your  person  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have  got  the  true  bar 
cant — Did  your  honour  call  ? — Attend  the  Lion  there. — Pipes  and 
tobacco  for  the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  hatf 
hour. 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here.  [Exit  MAIIX 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Afar.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house.  I  have  scarce 
a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best  room,  there  I  find  my 
host  and  his  story ;  if  I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there  we  have  my 
hostess  with  her  courtesy  down  to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  got 
a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for  recollections. — ( Walks  and 
muses.) 

Miss  Hard.  Did  you  call,  sir?     Did  your  honour  call? 

Mar.  (Musing.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's  too  grave  and 
sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  your  honour  call  ?  (She  still  places  herself  before 
him,  he  turning  away.) 

Mar.  No,  child  (musing).     Besides,  from  the  glimpse  I  ha 
her,  I  think  she  sq  lints. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Mar.  No,  no  (musing).     I  have  pleased  my  father,  ho' 


204  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

by  coming  down,  and  111  to-morrow  please  myself  by  returning. 
(Taking  out  his  tablets  and  perusing.) 

Miss  Hard.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called,  sir  ? 

Afar.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hard.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir.  We  have  such  a 
parcel  of  servants  ! 

Mar.  No,  no,  I  tell  you  (looks  full  in  her  face).  Yes,  child,  I 
think  I  did  call  I  wanted — I  wanted — I  vow,  child,  you  are 
vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one  ashamed. 

Mar.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious  eye.  Yes,  yeSj 
my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any  of  your — a — what  d'ye 
call  it  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that  these  ten  days. 

Mar.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very  little  purpose. 
Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the 
nectar  of  your  lips  ;  perhaps  I  might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hard.  Nectar !  nectar !  That's  a  liquor  there's  no  call 
for  in  these  parts.  French  I  suppose.  We  keep  no  French  wines 
here,  sir. 

Mar.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know  it  We  brew  all 
sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I  have  lived  here  these  eighteen 
years. 

Mar.  Eighteen  years !  Why  one  would  think,  child,  you  kept 
the  bar  before  you  was  born.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Oh  !  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age.  They  say  women 
and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Mar.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be  much  above  forty. 
(Approaching.)  Yet  nearer  I  don't  think  so  much.  (Approaching.) 
By  coming  close  to  some  women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but 
when  we  come  very  close  indeed — (Attempting  to  kiss  her.) 

Miss  Hard.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.  One  would  think 
you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they  do  horses,  by  mark  of 
onouth. 

Mar.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill     If  you  keep 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  aoj 

me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you  and  I  can  ever  be 
acquainted  ? 

Miss  Hard.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted  with  you  ?  I 
want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I'm  sure  you  do  not  treat 
Miss  Hardcastle  that  was  here  a  while  ago  in  this  obstropalous 
manner.  I'll  warrant  me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept 
bowing  to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  was 
before  a  Justice  of  Peace. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough  !  (To  fur.}  In 
awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  A  mere  awkward  squinting 
thing ;  no,  no.  I  find  you  don't  know  me,  I  laughed  and 
rallied  her  a  little ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I 
could  not  be  too  severe, me  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Oh !  then",  sir,  you  are  a  favourite,  I  find,  among  the 
ladies  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And  yet,  hang  me,  1 
don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow.  At  the  ladies'  club  in 
:own  I'm  called  their  agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my 
real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by.  My  name  is  Solomons;  Mr. 
Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your  service.  (Offering  to  salute  her.) 

Miss  Hard.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me  to  your  club,  not 
to  yourself.  And  you're  so  great  a  favourite  there,  you  say  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap,  Lady  Betty  Black- 
leg, the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs.  Langhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy 
Buckskin,  and  your  humble  servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the 
place. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it  is  a  very  merry  place,  I  suppose  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  supper,  wine,  and  old  women  ^an 
make  us. 

Miss  Hard.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle — ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mar.  (Aside.)  Egad  !  I  don't  quite  like  this  chit.  She  looks 
knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh,  child  ? 

Miss  Hard.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what  time  they  all  have 
for  minding  their  work  or  their  family. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  All's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at  me.  (To  her.) 
Do  you  ever  work,  child  ? 


ao6  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a  screen  or  a  quilt  in  the 
whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness  to  that 

Mar.  Odso  !  then  you  must  show  me  your  embroidery.  I 
embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little.  If  you  want  a  judge 
»f  your  work,  you  must  apply  to  me.  (Seizing  her  hand.) 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  but  the  colours  do  not  look  well  by  candle- 
light. You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning.  (Struggling.) 

Mar.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such  beauty  fires  beyond 
the  power  of  resistance. — Pshaw !  the  father  here  1  My  old  luck  • 
I  never  nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw  ames-ace  three  times* 
following.  \Exit  MARLUW. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hard.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your  modest  lover.  This 
is  your  humble  admirer,  that  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
and  only  adored  at  humble  distance,  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not 
ashamed  to  deceive  your  father  so  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he's  still  the  modest 
man  I  first  took  him  for ;  you'll  be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his  impudence  is  in- 
fectious !  Didn't  I  see  him  seize  your  hand  ?  Didn't  I  see  hin> 
haul  you  about  like  a  milkmaid  ?  And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect 
and  his  modesty,  forsooth  ! 

Miss  Hard.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his  modesty,  that 
he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass  off  with  time,  and  the  virtues 
that  will  improve  with  age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hard.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run  mad  !  I  tell  you, 
I'll  not  be  convinced.  1  am  convinced.  He  has  scarce  been 
thret  hours  in  the  house,  and  he  has  already  encroached  on  all 
my  prerogatives.  You  may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it 
modesty:  but  my  son-in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  different 
qualifications. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince  you. 

Hard.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I  have  thoughts 
»f  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

*  Ames-ace  or  ambs-adfe  L>  two  ace*  thrown  at  the  same  time  on  two  dice. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  207 

Miss  Hard.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I  hope  to  satisfy 
yoil. 

Hard,  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  111  have  no  trifling 
with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open,  do  you  mind  me  ? 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found  that  I  considered 
your  commands  as  my  pride  j  for  your  kindness  is  such,  that  my 
duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Hast.  You  surprise  me  !  Sir  Charles  Marlow  expected  here  this 
night !  Where  have  you  had  your  information  ? 

Miss  Nev.  You  may  depend  upon  it  I  just  saw  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he  intends  setting  out  a  few 
liours  after  his  son. 

Hast.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  completed  before  he 
arrives.  He  knows  me ;  and  should  he  find  me  here,  would 
discover  my  name,  and  perhaps  my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Miss  Nev.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe  ? 

Hast.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow,  who  keeps  the 
keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  meantime  I'll  go  to  prepare  matters 
for  our  elopement  I  have  had  the  'squire's  promise  of  a  fresh 
pair  of  horses ;  and  if  I  should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him 
further  directions.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  Well !  success  attend  you.  In  the  meantime  I'll  go 
amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pretence  of  a  violent  passion  for  my 
cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  MARLOW,  followed  by  a  SERVANT. 

Mar.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by  sending  me  so 
valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for  him,  when  he  knows  the 
only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door. — 
Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the  landlady,  as  I  ordered 
you  ?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  own  hands  ? 

Serv   Yes,  your  honour. 


ao8  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  VS. 

Mar.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough ;  she  asked  me 
howj  came  by  it?  and  she  said  she  had  a  great  mind  to  make 
me  give  an  account  of  myself.  [Exit  SERVANT. 

Mar.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  They're  safe,  however.  What  an  un- 
accountable set  of  beings  have  we  got  amongst !  This  little  bar- 
maid though  runs  in  my  head  most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the 
absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's  mine,  she  must  be 
mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  Bless  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that  I  intended  to 
prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Mario w  here,  and  in  spirits 
too! 

Afar.  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow  me  with 
laurels  !  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest  fellows  cfon't  want 
for  success  among  the  women. 

Hast.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what  success  has  your 
honour's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now,  that  it  grows  so  inso- 
lent upon  us? 

Mar.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely,  little  trmng, 
that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hast.  Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Mar.  She's  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such  fire,  such  motion, 
such  eyes,  such  lips — but,  egad !  she  would  not  let  me  kiss  them 
though. 

Hast.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her  ? 

Mar.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  her  work  above 
stairs,  and  I  am  to  improve  the  pattern. 

Hast.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about,  to  rob  a  woman  of 
her  honour? 

Mar.  Pshaw  !  pshaw  !  We  all  know  the  honour  of  the  barmaid 
of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  rob  her,  take  my  word  for  it ;  there's 
nothing  in  this  house  I  shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hast.   I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Mar.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world 
tnat  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQVkk. 


Hast.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the  casket  I  sent  you  to 
lock  up  ?  It's  in  safety  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken  care  of  it. 
But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door 
a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah  !  numskull  !  I  have  taken  better  precau 
tions  for  you  than  you  did  for  yourself  —  I  have  — 

Hast.  What? 

Mar.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for  you. 

Hast.  To  the  landlady  I 

Mar.  The  landlady. 

Hast.  You  did? 

Mar.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its  forthcoming,  you 
know. 

Hast.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Mar.  Wasn't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow  that  I  acted  pru- 
dently upon  this  occasion. 

Hast.  (Aside.}  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Mar.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though,  methinks.  Sure 
nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hast.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits  in  all  my  life. 
And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady,  who,  no  doubt,  very  readily 
undertook  the  charge. 

Mar.  Rather  too  readily.  For  she  not  only  kept  the  casket,  but, 
through  her  great  precaution,  was  going  to  keep  the  messenger  too. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hast.  He  !  he  !  he  !    They're  safe,  however  ? 

Mar.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hast.  (Aside.)  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are  at  an  end,  and 
we  must  set  off  without  it.  (To  him.)  Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you 
to  your  meditations  on  the  pretty  barmaid,  and  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  — 
may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself,  as  you  have  been  for  me. 

[Exit 

Mar.  Thank  ye,  George  :  I  ask  no  more.    Ha  5  ha  i  ha  I 

Enter  HARDCASTLK. 

I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.     It's  turned  all  topsy- 
•*ivanta  have  got  irunk  already.   I'll  bear  it  no 


sra  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

and  yet,  from  my  respect  for  his  father,  I'll  be  calm.  (To  Aim.)  Mr. 
Marlow,  your  servant  I'm  your  very  humble  servant  (Bowing  tow.} 

Mar.  Sir,  your  humble  servant  (Aside.)  What's  to  be  the  won- 
der now  ? 

Hard.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir,  that  no  man  alive 
ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your  father's  son,  sir.  I  hope  you 
think  so? 

Mar.  I  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want  much  entreaty.  I 
generally  make  my  father's  son  welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hard.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  But  though  I  say 
nothing  of  your  own  conduct,  that  of  your  servants  is  insufferable. 
Their  manner  of  drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this 
house,  I  assure  you. 

Mar.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no  fault  of  mine.  If 
they  don't  drink  as  they  ought,  they  are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them 
not  to  spare  the  cellar.  I  did,  I  assure  you.  (To  the  side-scene.) 
Here,  let  one  of  my  servants  come  up.  (To  him.)  My  positive 
directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they  should  make 
up  for  my  deficiencies  below. 

Hard.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they  do?  I'm 
satisfied  ! 

Mar.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear  from  one  of 
themselves. 

Enter  SERVANT,  drunk. 

Mar.  You,  Jeremy !  come  forward,  sirrah !  What  were  my 
orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink  freely,  and  call  for  what  you 
thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house  ? 

Hard.  (Aside.)  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honour,  liberty  and  Fleet  Street  for  ever  ! 
Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as  good  as  another  man.  I'll  drink 

for  no  man  before  supper,  sir,  d me !  Good  liquor  will  sit  upon 

a  good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon hiccup 

upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Mar.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as  drunk  as  he  can 
possibly  be.  I  don't  know  what  you'd  have  more,  unless  you'd  have 
the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer-barrel. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  til 

Hard.  Zounds !  he'll  drive  me  distracted,  if  I  contain  myself 
any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow,  sir,  I  have  submitted  to  your  insolence 
for  more  than  four  hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to 
an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that 
you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 

Mar.  Leave  your  house  ! Sure  you  jest,  my  good  friend  ! 

What !  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to  please  you  ! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me ;  so  I  desire  you'll 
leave  my  house. 

Mar.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious?  at  this  time  of  night,  and 
such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean  to  banter  me. 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious !  and  now  that  my  passions  are 
roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine,  sir ;  this  house  is  mine,  and  I 
command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Mar.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I  shan't  stir  a  step, 
I  assure  you.  (In  a  serious  tone.}  This  your  house,  fellow!  It's  my 
house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What 
right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir  ?  I  never  met  with 
such  impudence,  curse  me ;  never  in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hard.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did.  To  come  to  my  house, 
to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult 
the  family,  to  order  his  servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me, 
"  This  house  is  mine,  sir."  By  all  that's  impudent  it  makes  me 
laugh.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Pray,  sir  (bantering),  as  you  take  the  house, 
what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture?  There's  a  pair 
of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there's  a  fire-screen,  and  here's  a  pair  of 
brazen-nosed  bellows  ;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to  them. 

Mar.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir ;  bring  me  your  bill,  and  let's  rrake 
no  more  words  about  it. 

Hard.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What  think  you  of  the 
''  Rake's  Progress  "  for  your  own  apartment? 

Mar.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say ;  and  I'll  leave  you  and  your  in- 
fe^nal  house  directly. 

ffard.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table  that  you  may  see  youi 
own  face  in. 

Mar.  My  bill,  I  say. 

14— a 


it*  Gorj)SMrrfrs  PLA  vs. 

Hard.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your  own  particular 
slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Mar.  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let's  hear  no  more 
on't. 

Hard.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your  father's  letter  to  me. 
I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred  modest  man  as  a  visitor  here, 
but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully  ;  but  be 
will  be  down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it.  \Exit. 

Mar.  How's  this  ?  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken  the  house.  Every- 
thing looks  like  an  inn  ;  the  servants  cry  "  Coming  ;"  the  atten- 
dance is  awkward  ;  the  barmaid,  too,  to  attend  us.  But  she's 
here,  and  will  further  inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word 
with  you. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Miss  Hard.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  (Aside.}  I 
believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his  mistake.  But  it's  too  soon  quite 
to  undeceive  him. 

Mar.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question.  What  are  you,  and 
what  may  your  business  in  this  house  be  ? 

Miss  Hard.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Mar.  What,  a  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  appointed  to  keep  the 
keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing  in  my  power  to  give 
them. 

Mar.  That  is,  you  act  as  barmaid  of  this  inn. 

Miss  Hard.  Inn  !     O  la what  brought  that  in  your  head  r 

One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county  keep  an  inn — Ha !  ha  !  ha  \ 
— old  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  an  inn  ! 

Mar.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  1  Is  this  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house, 
child? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.    Whose  else  should  it  be  ? 

Mar.  So  then,  all's  out,  and  I  have  been  damnably  imposed  on. 
Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I  shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole 
town.  I  shall  be  stuck»up  in  caricatura  in  all  the  print-shops.  The 
Dullissimo- Matearoni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all  others  for  an 
inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend  for  an  innkeeper  1  What  a  swagger 


SffS  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  313 

ing  puppy  must  he  take  me  for  ?  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  my- 
self! There,  again,  may  I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  barmaid. 

Miss  Hard.  Dear  me !  dear  me  !  I'm  sure  there's  nothing  in  my 
behaviour  to  put  me  upon  a  level  with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Mar.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in  for  a  list  of 
blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a  subscriber.  My  stu- 
pidity saw  everything  the  wrong  way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity 
for  assurance,  and  your  simplicity  for  allurement  But  it's  over — 
This  house  I  no  more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to  disoblige  you. 
I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront  any  gentleman  who  has  been 
so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should 
be  sorry  (pretending  to  cry)  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my  account 
I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people  said  anything  amiss,  since  I  have 
no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Mar.  (Aside.}  By  Heaven  !  she  weeps.  This  is  the  first  mark 
of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest  woman,  and  it  touches  me. 
(To  her.)  Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl :  you  are  the  only  part  of  the 
family  I  leave  with  reluctance.  But  to  be  plain  with  you,  the 
difference  of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  makes  an  honour- 
able connection  impossible ;  and  I  can  never  harbour  a  thought  of 
seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honour,  of  bringing  ruin  upon 
one  whose  only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  Generous  man  !  I  now  begin  to  admire  him. 
(To  him.)  But  I  am  sure  my  family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's, 
and  though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented 
mind ;  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad  to 
want  fortune. 

Mar.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Hfiss  Hard.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance  from  one,  that,  if 
I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give  it  all  to. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me,  so  that  if  I  stay, 
I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold  effort  and  leave  her.  (To 
her.)  Your  partiality  in  my  favour,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sen- 
sibly -t  and  were  I  to  live  for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my 


1 14  GOLD  -MITIfS  PLA  YS. 

choice.  But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much 
to  the  authority  of  a  father ;  so  that — I  can  scarcely  speak  it — it 
affects  me — Fare-well  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till  now.    He  shall  not 

go,  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain  him.     I'll  still  preserve  the 

character  in  which  I  stooped  to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my  papa, 

who  perhaps  may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next  time.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels  again,  that's  a  sure  thing  ; 
but  she  believes  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Nev.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't  forsake  us  in  this 
distress?  If  she  in  the  least  suspects  that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall 
certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent  to  my  Aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten 
times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  d  d  bad  things. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a  pair  of  horses  that  will  fly 
like  Whistle-jacket ;  and  I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted 
you  nicely  before  her  face.  Here  she  comes,  we  must  court  a  bit 
or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  us.  (Ttiey  retire  and  seem 
to  fondle.) 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  was  v  greatly  fluttered,  to  be  sure.  But  my 
son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy, 
however,  till  they  are  fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own 
fortune.  But  what  do  I  see  ?  fondling  together,  as  I'm  alive.  I 
never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah  !  have  I  caught  you,  my 
pretty  doves  ?  What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances  and  broken 
murmurs  ?  Ah  1 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little  now  and  then 
to  be  sure.  But  there's  no  love  lost  between  us. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the  flame,  only  to 
make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Nev.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us  more  of  his  company 
at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave  us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us, 
Cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TV  CONQUER.  flj 

Tony,  Oh !  it's  a  pretty  ueature.  No,  I'd  sooner  leave  my  horse 
in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you  smile  upon  one  so.  Your 
laugh  makes  you  so  becoming. 

Miss  Nev.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help  admiring  that 
natural  humour,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red,  thoughtless  {patting  his 
cheek)  ah  !  it's  a  bold  face, 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pretty  innocence  ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  Cousin  Con's  hazel  eyes,  and  her 
pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this  way  and  that  over  the  haspi- 
colls,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he  would  charm  the  bird  from  the  tree,  I  was 
never  so  happy  before.  My  boy  takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  in- 
continently. You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear? 
You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we'll  put  off  the  rest  of  his 
education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 
Enter  DIGGORY. 

Dig.  Where's  the  'squire  ?    I  have  got  a  Irtter  for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.    She  reads  all  my  letters  first. 

Dig.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Dig.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the  letter  itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though  (turning  t/ic  letter  and  gazing 
on  it). 

Miss  Nev.  (Aside.)  Undone  !  undone  !  A  letter  to  him  from 
Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt  seis  it,  we  are  ruined  for 
ever.  I'll  keep  her  employed  a  little  if  I  can.  (To  MRS.  HARD- 
CASTLE.)  But  I  have  not  told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart 
answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so  laughed — You  must  know, 
madam — This  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.  (They  corner.) 

Teny.  (Still  gazing.)  A  d d  cramp  piece  of  penmanship,  as 

ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your  print  hand  very  well.  But 
here  there  are  such  handles,  and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one  can 
scarce  know  the  head  from  the  tail  "  To  Anthony  Lumpkin, 
Esquire."  It's  very  odd  I  can  read  the  outside  of  rav  Setters,  where 
«iy  own  name  is  well  enough.  But  when  I  C<>VT»*.  to  ope«i  it,  it's  all 


it6  GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard ;  for  the  inside  of  the  letter  ii 

always  the  cream  of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Very  well,  very  well.  And  so,  my 
son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher. 

Miss  Nev.  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  hear  the  rest,  madam.  A 
little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear  us.  You'll  hear  how  he  puzzled 
him  again. 

Mrs  Hard.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now  himself,  me  thinks. 

Tony.  (Still  gazing.)  A  d d  up  and  down  hand,  as  if  it  was 

disguised  in  liquor.  (Reading.)  "  Dear  Sir," — Ay  that's  that.  Then 
there's  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard, 
or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  cannot  tell. 

Mrs.  Hard.  What's  that,  my  dear?  can  I  give  you  any  assist- 
ance? 

Miss  Nev.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it  Nobody  reads  a  cramp 
hand  better  than  I  (Twitching  the  letter  from  him).  Do  you  know 
who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger  the  feeder. 

Miss  Nev.  Ay,  so  it  is  (pretending  to  read).  Dear  'Squire,  hoping 
that  you're  in  health,  as  I  am  at  present  The  gentlemen  of  the 
Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  the  Goose-green  quite 
out  of  feather.  The  odds — um — odd  battle — um — long  fighting 
— um — here,  here,  it's  all  about  cocks  and  fighting ;  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence ;  here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up.  (Thrusting  the  crumpled  Utter 
upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  consequence  in  the 
world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother, 
do  you  make  it  out.  Of  no  consequence  !  (Giving  MRS.  HARD- 
CASTLE  the  letter.) 

Mrs.  Hard.  How's  this  !  (reads)  "  Dear  'Squire,  I'm  now  wait- 
ing for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  post-chaise  and  pair,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses  yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey. 
I  expect  you'll  assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised. 
Despatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag  (ay,  the  hag),  your  mother,  will 
Otherwise  suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings."  Grant  me  patience  1  I 
shall  run  distracted  !  My  rage  chokes  me. 


SHE  STOMPS  TO  CONQUER.  217 

Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend  your  resentment  for  a 
few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me  any  impertinence,  or  sinistei 
design  that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hard.  ( Courtesying  very  low.}  Fine  spoken,  madam  ;  you 
are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink 
of  courtesy  and  circumspection,  madam.  (Changing  her  tone.}  And 
you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep 
your  mouth  shut :  were  you,  too,  joined  against  me  ?  But  I'll  de- 
feat all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam,  since  you 
have  go':  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would  be  cruel  to  dis- 
appoint them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of  running  away  with 
your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off  with  me.  Your 
old  Aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you  secure,  I'll  warrant  me.  You 
too,  sir,  may  mount  your  horse,  and  guard  us  on  the  way.  Here, 
Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory  1  I'll  show  you  that  I  wish  you  better 
than  you  do  yourselves.  \Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Nev.  What  better  could  be  expected  from  being  con- 
nected with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the  nods  and  signs  I 
made  him  ? 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  cleverness,  and  not 
my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business.  You  were  so  nice  and  so 
busy  with  your  Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens,  that  I  thought  you 
could  never  be  making  believe. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant  that  you  have  shown  my 
letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well  done,  young  gentleman? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there,  who  betrayed  you  ? 
Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among  you.  Rendered 
contemptible,  driven  into  ill  manners,  despised,  insulted,  laughed  at 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  all  Bedlam  broke  loose 
presently. 


ai8  GOLDSMITHS  PLA  VS. 

Miss  Nev.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to  whom  we  all  owe 
every  obligation. 

Mat.  What  can  I  say  to  him?  a  mere  boy,  an  idiot,  whose 
ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hast.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would  but  disgrace 
correction. 

Miss  Nev.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough  to  make  him- 
self merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hast.  An  insensible  cub. 

Mar.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw  1  I'll  fight  you  both  one  after  the  other with 

baskets. 

Afar.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment  But  your  conduct, 
Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation.  You  knew  of  my  mistakes, 
yet  would  not  undeceive  me. 

Hast.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disappointments,  is  this 
i  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not  friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. 

Mar.  But,  Sir — 

Miss  Nev.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your  mistake,  till  it 
*as  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  Be  pacified. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready  immediately,  madam 
The  horses  are  putting  to.  Your  hat  and  things  are  in  the  next 
room.  We  are  to  go  thirty  miles  before  morning.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Nev.  Well,  well,  I'll  come  presently. 

Mar.  (To  HASTINGS.)  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to  assist  in  render- 
ing me  ridiculous?  To  hang  me  out  for  the  scorn  of  all  my  ac 
juaintance?  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hast.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon  that  subject,  to 
'ieliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the  care  of  another,  sir  ? 

Miss  Nev.  Mr.  Hastings !  Mr.  Marlow !  Why  will  you  increase 
my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute?  I  implore,  I  entreat 

vou 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Your  cloak,  madam.     My  mistress  is  impatient 

[Exit  Servant. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  319 

Miss  Nev.  I  come.     Pray  be  pacified.     If  I  leave  you  thus,  I 

shall  die  with  apprehension. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Seru.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The  horses  are 
waityig.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Nev.  O,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew  what  a  scene  of  con- 
straint and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I  am  sure  it  would  convert 
your  resentment  into  pity. 

Mar.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions  that  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  Forgive  me,  madam.  George,  forgive  me. 
You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hast.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only  excuse. 

Miss  Nev.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have  that  esteem  foi 
me  that  I  think,  that  I  am  sure  you  have,  your  constancy  for  three 
years  will  but  increase  the  happiness  of  our  future  connection. 
If 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Within.}  Miss  Neville.  Constance,  why  Con- 
stance, I  say. 

Miss  Nev.  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy,  remember,  constancy 
is  the  word.  \Exit. 

Hast.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this  ?  To  be  so  near 
happiness,  and  such  happiness! 

Mar.  (To  Tony.}  You  see  now,  young  gentleman,  the  effects  of 
your  folly.     What  might  be  amusement  to  you  is  here  disappoint 
ment,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  (J*'rom  a  reverie.)  Ecod  I  I  have  hit  it :  it's  here.  Your 
hands.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky.  My  boots  there,  ho ! 
•—Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  ;  and  if 
you  don't  find  Tony  Lumpkin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than 
you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet 
Bouncer  into  the  bargain.  Come  along.  My  boots,  ho  ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT.  V. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  SERVANT. 
Hast.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville  drive  off,  you  fay? 


•20  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Serv.  Yes,  your  honour.  They  went  off  in  a  post-coach,  and 
the  young  'squire  went  on  horseback.  They're  thirty  miles  off  by 
this  time. 

Hast.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Sent.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived. — He  and  the  old 
gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laughing  at  Mr.  Marlowl  mis- 
take this  half  hour.  They  are  coming  this  way. 

Hast.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to  my  fruitless 
appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  This  is  about  the 
time.  [Exit. 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  HARDCASTLK. 

Hard.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  The  peremptory  tone  in  which  he  sent 
forth  his  sublime  commands! 

Sir  Char.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose  he  treated  all 
your  advances. 

Hard.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something  in  me  above  a 
common  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Char.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  *n  uncommon 
innkeeper — ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of  anything  but 
joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  our  families  will  make 
our  personal  friendships  hereditary ;  and  though  my  daughter's 
fortune  is  but  small — 

Sir  Char.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to  me?  Mv 
SOD  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  already,  and  can 
want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl  to  share  his  happiness 
and  increase  it  If  they  like  each  other,  as  you  say  they  do — 

Hard.  If,  man  1  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  other.  My 
daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Char.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves,  you  know. 

Hard.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest  manner  my- 
self; and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of  your  ifst  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  MARLOW 

Afar.  I  come,  sir,  once  more  to  ask  pardon  for  my  strange 
conduct  I  can  scarce  refect  on  my  insolence  without  confusion. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  221 

Hard.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too  gravely.  An  houi 
or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter  will  set  all  to  rights  again. 
She'll  never  like  you  the  worse  for  it 

Mar.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hard.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Marlow  ;  if  I  am  not 
3ec"eived,  you  have  something  more  than  approbation  thereabouts. 
i ou  take  me  ? 

Mar.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 

Hard.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and  know  what's  what  as 
well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I  know  what  has  passed  between 
you  j  but  mum. 

Mar.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  between  us  but  the  most 
profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most  distant  reserve  on  hers. 
Vou  don't  think,  sir,  that  my  impudence  has  been  passed  upon  all 
the  rest  of  the  family  ? 

Hard.  Impudence !  No,  I  don't  say  that — not  quite  impudence 
—though  girls  like  to  be  played  with  and  rumpled  a  little  too  some- 
times. But  she  has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you, 

Mar.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hard.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place  well  enough.  But 
this  is  over-acting,  young  gentleman.  "You  may  be  open.  Your 
father  and  I  will  like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Mar.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever — 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you  j  and  as  I'm  sure  you 
like  her — 

Mar.  Dear  sir — I  protest,  sir — 

Hard.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  joined  as  fast  as 
the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Mar.  But  hear  me,  sir — 

Hard.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  admire  it;  every 
moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief,  so — 

Mar.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  that's  just  and  true, 
I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest  mark  of  my  attach- 
ment, or  even  the  most  distant  hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection. 
We  had  but  one  interview,  and  that  was  formal,  modest,  and  un- 
interesting. 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 


Hard.  (Aside.)  This  fellow's  formal,  modest  impudence  is 
beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Char.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  or  made  any  pro- 
testations ? 

Mar.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in  obedience  to 
your  commands  ;  I  saw  the  lady  without  emotion,  and  parted 
without  reluctance. — I  hope  you'll  exact  no  further  proofs  of  my 
duty,  nor  prevent  me  from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so 
many  mortifications.  [Exit. 

Sir  Char.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity  with  which  he 
parted. 

Hard.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate  intrepidity  of  his 
assurance. 

Sir  Char,  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour  upon  his  truth. 

Hard.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would  stake  my  happi- 
ness upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us  sincerely  and 
without  reserve  :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made  you  any  profession  of 
love  or  affection  ? 

Miss  Hard.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir  I  But  since  you 
require  unreserved  sincerity,  I  think  he  has. 

Hard.  (To  SIR  CHARLES.)  You  see. 

Sir  Char.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my  son  had  more 
than  one  interview? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hard.  (To  SIR  CHARLES).  You  see, 

Sir  Char.  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment  ? 

Miss  Hard.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Char.  Did  he  talk  of  love? 

Miss  Hard.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Char.  Amazing  1    And  all  this  formally? 

Miss  Hard.  Formally. 

ffard.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied, 

Sir  Char*  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  223 

Miss  Hard.  As  most  professed  admirers  do :  said  some  civil 
things  of  my  face ;  talked  much  of  his  want  of  merit,  and  the 
greatness  of  mine;  mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy 
speech,  and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Char.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced  indeed.  I  know  his 
conversation  among  women  to  be  modest  and  submissive.  This 
forward,  canting,  ranting  manner  by  no  means  describes  him  ;  and, 
I  am  confident,  he  never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  convince  you  to  your 
face  of  my  sincerity  ?  If  you  and  my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour, 
will  place  yourselves  behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare 
his  passion  to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Char.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you  describe,  all 
my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I  describe — I  fear 
my  happiness  must  never  have  a  beginning.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  changes  to  the  back  of  the  Garden. 
Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a  fellow  who  pro- 
bably takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me.  He  never  intended  to  be 
punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do  I  see?  It  is  he  !  and 
ijerhaps  with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  TONY,  booted  and  spattered. 

/fast.  My  honest  'squire !  I  now  find  you  a  man  of  your  word. 
This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you  have  in  the 
vorld,  if  you  knew  but  all.     This  riding  by  night,  by-the-by,  is 
nrserlly  tiresome.     It  has  shook  me  worse  than  -the  basket  of  a 
.a;ige-coach. 

Hast.  But  how?  where  did  you  leave  your  fellow-travellers? 
Art.  they  in  safety?  Are  they  housed? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a  half  is  no  such 
bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have  smoked  for  it :  rabbit  me,  but 
I'd  rather  ride  'orty  miles  after  a  fox  Uan  ten  with,  such  varmint. 

/ins?  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  ?  I  die  «ath  im- 
patience. 


124  GOLDSMITH'S  PLA  YS. 

Tony.  Left  them !  Why,  where  should  I  leave  them  but  where 
I  found  them  ? 

Hast.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goes  round  the  house, 
and  round  the  house,  and  never  touches  the  house  ? 

Hast.  I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mun.  I  have  led  them  astray.  By  jingo, 
there's  not  a  pond  or  a  slough  within  five  miles  of  the  place  but 
they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hast.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  I  understand  :  you  took  them  in  a  round, 
while  they  supposed  themselves  going  forward,  and  so  you  have 
at  last  brought  them  home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  tocjk  them  down  Feather-bed 
Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. — I  then  rattled  them 
crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down  Hill. — I  then  introduced 
them  to  the  gibbett  on  Heavy-tree  Heath  :  and  from  that,  with  a 
circumbendibus,  I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hast.  But  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Tony.  No,  no,  only  mother  is  confoundedly  frightened.  She 
thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She's  sick  of  the  journey  ;  and  the 
cattle  can  scarcely  crawl.  So  if  your  own  horses  be  ready,  you 
may  whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no  soul  here 
can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful ! 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble  'squire.     Just  now  it  was 

all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through.     D n  your  way  of  fighting, 

I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country  we  kiss 
and  be  friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me  through  then  I  should 
be  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hast.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to  relieve  Miss 
Neville :  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed,  I  promise  to  take 
care  of  the  young  one. 

[Exit  HASTINGS. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Vanish  !  She's  got 
from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like  a  mermaid. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Enter  Mrs.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed !  Shook !  Battered  to  death  \ 
I  shall  never  survive  it.  That  last  jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the 
juickset  hedge,  has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own  fault  You  would 
be  for  running  away  by  night,  without  knowing  one  inch  of  the 
way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I  never  met  so 
many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey.  Drenched  in  the  mud, 
overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly, 
and  at  last  to  lose  our  way.  Whereabout  do  you  think  we  are, 
Tony? 

Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common, 
about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O  lud  !  O  lud !  The  most  notorious  spot  in  all 
the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery  to  make  a  complete  night 
on'L 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid.     Two  of  the 
five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the  other  three  may  not  find 
us.     Don't  be  afraid. — Is  that  a  man  that's  galloping  behind  us  ? 
No,  it's  only  a  tree. — Don't  be  afraid. 
Mrs.  Hard.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 
Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  moving  behind 
the  thicket  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  death  ! 

Tony.  No  :  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma  ;  don'l 
be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man  coming  towards 
us.  Ah  !  I'm  sure  on't.  If  he  perceives  us  we  are  undone. 

Tony.    (Aside.)  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  unlucky,   come  to 
take  one  of  his  night  walks.     (To  her.)  Ah  !  it's  a  highwayman, 
with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.     A  d — — d  ill-looking  fellow. 
Mrs.  Hard.  Good  Heaven  defend  us  !     He  approaches. 
Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourseli  in  that  thicket,  and  leave  me  to 
manage  him.    If  there  be  any  danger,  I'll  cough  and  cry  htm, 

«5 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


When  I  cough,  be  sure  to  keep  close.     (MRS.  HARDCASTLE  hides 
behind  a  tree  in  the  back  Scene.) 

Enter  HARDCASTLE, 

Hard.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people  in  want  o( 
help.  —  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you?  I  did  not  expect  you  so  soon 
back.  Are  your  mother  and  her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  Aunt  Pedigree's.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind.)  Ah,  death  !  I  find  there's  danger. 

Hard.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours  ;  sure  that's  too  much,  my 
youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short  journeys,  as 
they  say.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind?)  Sure  he'll  do  the  dear  boy  no  harm. 

Hard.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here;  I  should  be  gkd  to  know 
from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was  saying  that 
forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good  going.  Hem.  As  to  be 
sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the 
air.  We'll  go  in,  if  you  please.  Hem. 

Hard.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not  answer  your- 
self. I'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and  am  resolved  (raising  his 
voice)  to  find  the  other  out 

Mrs.  Hard.  (From  behind.)  Oh  !  he's  coming  to  find  me  out 
Oh! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  ?  Hem.  I'll  lay 
down  my  life  for  the  truth  —  hem  —  I'll  tell  you  all,  sir.  (Detaining 
him.) 

Hard.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I  insist  on  seeing. 
It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Running  forward  from  behind.)  O  lud  !  he'll 
murder  my  poor  boy,  m>  darling  Here,  good  gentleman,  whet 
your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my  money,  my  life,  but  spare  that 
young  gentleman  ;  spare  my  child,  if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hard.  My  wife,  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From  whence  can  she 
come  ?  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Kneeling.]  Take    compassion   on    us,   good   Mr. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  227 

Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our  watches,  all  we  have,  but 
spare  our  lives.  We  will  never  bring  you  to  justice ;  indeed  we 
won't,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hard.  I  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her  senses.  What,  Dorothy, 
don't  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive !  My  fears  blinded 
me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have  expected  to  meet  you  here  in 
this  frightful  place,  so  far  from  home  ?  What  has  brought  you  to 
follow  us  ? 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your  wits?  So  far 
from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty  yards  of  your  own  door ! 
(To  him.}  This  is  one  of  your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue  you! 
(To  her.}  Don't  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mulberry-tree?  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse-pond  as  long  as  I 
live  ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it  (To  TONY.)  And  is  it  to  you, 
pou  graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this  1  I'll  teach  you  to  abuse  your 
mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have  spoiled  me, 
and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't 
Mrs.  Hard.  I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage.     Exit. 
Hard.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply.  \Exit. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Hast.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  deliberate  thus  ?  If  we 
delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  for  ever.  Pluck  up  a  little  resolution, 
and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Nev.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so  s"unk  with  the 
agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am  unable  to  face  any  new 
danger.  Two  or  th^ee  years'  patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with 
happihess. 

Hast.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  inconstancy.  Let  us 
fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us  date  our  happiness  from  this  very 
moment.  Perish  fortune  !  Love  and  content  will  increase  what 
we  possess  beyond  a  monarch's  revenue.  Let  me  prevail ! 

Miss  Nev.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.     Prudence  once  more  comes 


GOLDSMITH'S  PLAYS. 


to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In  the  moment  of  pas 
sion,  fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting 
repentance.  I'm  resolved  to  apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion 
and  justice  for  redress. 

Hast.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not  the  power  to 
relieve  you. 

Miss  Nev.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that  I  am  resolved 
to  rely. 

Hast.  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you  persist,  I  must  reluct- 
antly obey  you.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  changes, 
Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Sir  Char.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what  you  say  appears, 
I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If  what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall 
then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation  ;  and  to  show  I 
merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  directed,  you  shall  hear  his 
explicit  declaration.  But  he  comes. 

Sir  Char.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the  appointment. 

[Exit  SIR  CHARLES. 
Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once  more  to 
take  leave  ;  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I  feel  in 
the  separation. 

Miss  Hard.  (In  her  own  natural  manner.}  I  believe  these 
sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir,  which  you  can  so  easily  re- 
move. A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness, 
by  showing  the  little  value  of  what  you  now  think  proper  to  regret. 

Mar.  (Aside.)  This  girl  every  moment  improves  upon  me.  (To 
her.)  It  must  not  be,  madam,  I  have  already  trifled  too  long  with 
my  heart  My  very  pride  begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The 
disparity  of  education  and  r 

rcrtune,  the  anger  or  a  parent,  and  the 

contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight  ;  and  nothing 
can  restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  go,  sir  :  I'll  urge  nothing  more  to  detain  you. 
Though  my  family  be  as  good  as  hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  229 

my  education,  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages 
without  equal  affluence?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the 
slight  approbation  of  imputed  merit ;  I  must  have  only  the 
mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims  are  fixed 
on  fortune. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE  and  SIR  CHARLES,  from  behind. 

Sir  Char.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hard.  Ay,  ay;  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my  Kate  covers 
him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Mar.  By  heavens !  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my  smallest 
consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my  eye;  for  who  could 
see  that  without  emotion?  But  every  moment  that  I  converse 
with  you,  steals  in  some  new  grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and 
gives  it  stronger  expression.  What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness, 
now  appears  refined  simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance, 
now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence  and  con- 
scious virtue. 

Sir  Char.  What  can  it  mean  ?    He  amazes  me  f 

Hard.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush  ! 

Mar.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and  I  have  too 
good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment,  when  he  sees  you, 
to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot  detain  you. 
Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connection  in  which  there  is  the 
smallest  room  for  repentance  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the 
mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you  with  confusion  ? 
Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  happiness  which  was  ac- 
quired by  lessening  yours  ? 

.  Mar.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness  but  what's 
in  your  power  to  grant  me  !  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel  repentance  but 
in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before.  I  will  stay  even  contrary 
to  your  wishes  ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I  will 
make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past 
conduct. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  youTI  desist.  As  our  acquaint 
•nee  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indifference.  I  might  have  given  an 


GOLDSMITHS  FLA  YS, 


hour  or  two  to  levity;  but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I 
could  ever  submit  to  a  connection  where  I  must  appear  mercenary, 
and  you  imprudent  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  con- 
fident addresses  of  a  secure  admirer  ? 

Mar.  (Kneeling.')  Does  this  look  like  security?  Does  this  look 
like  confidence?  No,  madam,  every  moment  that  shows  me  your 
merit,  only  serves  to  increase  my  diffidence  and  confusion.  Here 
let  me  continue  - 

Sir  Char.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  —  Charles,  Charles,  how  hast 
thou  deceived  me  1  Is  this  your  indifference,  your  uninteresting 
conversation  ? 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt;  your  formal  interview  1  What  have 
you  to  say  now? 

Mar.  That  I'm  all  amazement  !    What  can  it  mean  ? 
Hard.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay  things  at  pleasure. 
That  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private,  and  deny  it  in  public  ,• 
that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 
Mar.  Daughter  !  —  This  lady  your  daughter  ? 
Hard.  Yes,   sir,   my  only  daughter:    my  Kate;    whose  else 
should  she  be  ? 

Mar.  Oh,  the  devil  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall  squinting  lady  you 
were  pleased  to  take  me  for  (courtesying)  ;  she  that  you  addressed 
as  the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold 
forward  agreeable  Rattle  of  the  ladies'  club.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Mar.  Zounds  !  there's  no  bearing  this  ;  it's  worse  than  death  ! 
Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir,  will  you  give  us 
leave  to  address  you  ?    As  the  faltering  gentleman,  with  looks  on 
the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy;  or. 
the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the  morning  ?    Ha  I 
ha!  ha! 

Mar.  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head  !  I  never  attempted  to  be 
impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not  taken  down  !  I  must  be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall  not  I  see  it 
was  all  a  mistake,  and  X  am  rejoiced  to  find  it  You  shall  not 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  431 

stir,  I  tell  you.     I  know  shell  forgive  you.     Won't  you  forgive 
him,  Kate  ?    We'll  all  forgive  you.     Take  courage,  man. 

[They  retire,  she  tormenting  him,  to  the  back  Scene. 
Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  TONY. 

Mrs.  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.     Let  them  go,  I  care  not 

Hard.  Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hard,  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman,  Mr.  Hastings, 
from  town.  He  who  came  down  with  our  modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Char.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings  ?  As  worthy  a  fellow 
as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hard.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm  proud  of  the  con- 
nection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady,  he  has  not 
taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in  this  family  to  console  us  for 
her  loss. 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mercenary? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hard.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of  age,  refuses  to  marry 
his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she  has  not  thought 
proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  (Aside.)  What,  returned  so  soon  1  I  begin  not 
to  like  it. 

Hast.  (To  HARDCASTLE.)  For  my  late  attempt  to  fly  off  with 
your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my  punishment.  We  are 
now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your  justice  to  your  humanity. 
By  her  father's  consent  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our 
passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Nev.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to  stoop  to 
dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour  of  levity,  I  was 
ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice.  But  I'm 
now  recovered  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  from  your  tenderness 
what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pshaw,  pshaw  !  this  is  all  but  the  whining  end  of  a 
modem  novel 


GOLDSMITH'S 


Hard.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're  come  back  to  reclaim 
their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's 
hand  whom  I  now  offer  you  ? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing  ?  You  know  I  can't  refuse 
her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hard.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy,  was  likely  to 
conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred  with  your  mother's 
desire  to  keep  it  secret  But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong 
use,  I  must  now  declare  you  have  been  of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age  !     Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hard.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my  liberty. 
(Taking  Miss  NEVILLE'S  hand.)  Witness  all  men  by  these  pre- 
sents, that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  esquire,  of  BLANK  place,  refuse 
you,  ConsUuitia  Neville,  spinster,  of  no  place  at  all,  for  my  true 
and  lawful  wife.  So  Constance  Neville  may  marry  whom  she 
pleases,  and  Tony  Liimpkin  is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Char.  Oh,  brave  'squire  I 

Hast.  My  worthy  friend  ! 

Mrs.  Hatd.  My  undutiful  offspring  ! 

Mar.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sincerely.  And 
could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I 
should  be  the  happiest  man  alive  if  you  would  return  me  the 
favour. 

Hast.  (To  Miss  HARDCASTLE.)  Come,  madam,  you  are  now 
driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your  contrivances.  I  know 
you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must  and  shall 
have  him. 

Hard.  (Joining  their  hands.)  And  I  say  so  too.  And,  Mr. 
Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't 
believe  you'll  ever  repent  your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To- 
morrow we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and 
the  mistakes  of  the  night  shall  be  crowned  with  a  merry  morning. 
So,  boy,  take  her  ;  and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress, 
my  wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife. 

\Exeunt  omnes. 


THE   VICAR    OF    WAKEF1ELD. 


PREFACE. 


[jHERE  are  a  hundred  faults  in  this  thing,  and  a  hundred 
things  might  be  said  to  prove  them  beauties  :  but  it  is 
needless.  A  book  may  be  amusing  with  numerous 
errors,  or  it  may  be  very  dull  without  a  single  absurdity.  The 
hero  of  this  piece  unites  in  himself  the  three  greatest  characters 
upon  earth ,  he  is  a  priest,  a  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a 
family.  He  is  drawn  as  ready  to  teach  and  ready  to  obey ;  as 
simple  in  affluence  and  majestic  in  adversity.  In  this  age  of 
opulence  and  refinement  how  can  such  a  character  please  ?  Such 
as  are  fond  of  high  life  will  turn  with  disdain  from  the  simplicity 
of  his  country  fireside ;  such  as  mistake  ribaldry  for  humour  will 
find  no  wit  in  his  harmless  conversation  ;  and  such  as  have  been 
taught  to  deride  religion  will  laugh  at  one  whose  chief  stores  of 
comfort  are  drawn  from  futurity. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE 


VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD,  IN  WHICH 
A  KINDRED  LIKENESS  PREVAILS  AS  WELL  OF  MINDS  AS  OF 
PERSONS. 

WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who 
married  and  brought  up  a  large  family,  did 
more  service  than  he  who  continued  single,  and 
only  talked  of  population.  From  this  motive,  I 
had  scarce  taken  orders  a  year  before  I  began  to  think 
seriously  of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife  as  she  did  her 
wedding-gown,  not  for  a  fine  glossy  surface,  but  sucil 
qualities  as  would  wear  well.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a 
good-natured  notable  woman ;  and  as  for  breeding,  thera 
were  few  country  ladies  who  could  show  more.  She  could 
read  any  English  book  without  much  spelling  ;  but  for  pick- 


236  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

ling,  preserving,  and  cookery,  none  could  excel  her.  She 
prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excellent  contriver  in 
housekeeping  ;  though  I  could  never  find  that  we  grew 
richer  with  all  her  contrivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our  fondness 
increased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was  in  fact  nothing  that 
could  make  us  angry  with  the  world  or  each  other.  We 
had  an  elegant  house,  situate  in  a  fine  country,  and  a  good 
neighbourhood.  The  year  was  spent  in  moral  or  rural 
amusements ;  in  visiting  our  rich  neighbours,  and  relieving 
such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no  revolutions  to  fear,  nor 
fatigues  to  undergo  ;  all  our  adventures  were  by  the  fire- 
side, and  all  our  migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the 
brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the  traveller  or 
stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry  wine,  for  which  we 
had  great  reputation  :  and  I  profess,  with  the  veracity  of 
an  historian,  that  I  never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with 
it.  Our  cousins,  too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  re- 
membered their  affinity,  without  any  help  from  the  heralds' 
office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see  us.  Some  of  them 
did  us  no  great  honour  by  these  claims  of  kindred  ;  as  we 
had  the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst  the 
number.  However,  my  wife  always  insisted  that,  as  they 
were  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at 
the  same  table.  So  that,  if  we  had  not  very  rich,  we 
generally  had  very  happy,  friends  about  us :  for  this  remark- 
will  hold  good  through  life,  that  the  poorer  the  guest,  the 
better  pleased  he  ever  is  with  being  treated  :  and  as  some 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


men  gaze  with  admiration  at  the  colours  of  a  tulip,  or  the 
wing  of  a  butterfly,  so  I  was  by  nature  an  admirer  of  happy 
human  faces.  However,  when  any  one  of  our  relations  was 
found  to  be  a  person  of  very  bad  character,  a  troublesome 
guest,  or  one  we  desired  to  get  rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my 
house,  I  ever  took  care  to  lend  him  a  riding-coat,  or  a  pair 
of  boots,  or  sometimes  a  horse  of  small  value,  and  I  always 
had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he  never  came  back  to  return 
them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of  such  as  we  did  not 
like  ;  but  never  was  the  family  of  Wakefield  known  to  turn 
the  traveller,  or  the  poor  dependent,  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of  much  happiness  ; 
not  but  that  we  sometimes  had  those  little  rubs  which  Pro- 
vidence sends  to  enhance  the  value  of  its  favours.  My 
orchard  was  often  robbed  by  schoolboys,  and  my  wife's 
custards  plundered  by  the  cats  or  the  children.  The 
Squire  would  sometimes  fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic 
parts  of  my  sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife's  civilities 
at  church  with  a  mutilated  courtesy.  But  we  soon  got 
over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such  accidents,  and  usually 
in  three  or  four  days  began  to  wonder  how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they  were 
educated  without  softness,  so  they  were  at  once  well-formed 
and  healthy  ;  my  sons  hardy  and  active,  my  daughters 
beautiful  and  blooming.  When  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
little  circle,  which  promised  to  be  the  supports  of  my 
declining  age,  I  could  not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story 
of  Count  Abensberg,  who,  in  Henry  II.'s  progress  through 
Germany,  while  other  courtiers  came  with  their  treasures, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


brought  his  thirty-two  children,  and  presented  them  to  his 
sovereign  as  the  most  valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow. 
In  this  manner,  though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered  them 
as  a  very  valuable  present  made  to  my  country,  and  conse- 
quently looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor.  Our  eldest  son  was 
named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten  thousand 
pounds.  Our  second  child,  a  girl,  I  intended  to  call  after 
her  aunt  Grissel  ;  but  my  wife,  who,  during  her  pregnancy, 
had  been  reading  romances,  insisted  upon  her  being  called 
Olivia.  In  less  than  another  year  we  had  another  daughter, 
and  now  I  was  determined  that  Grissel  should  be  her  name  ; 
but  a  rich  relation  taking  a  fancy  to  stand  godmother,  the 
girl  was,  by  her  directions,  called  Sophia  ;  so  that  we  had 
two  romantic  names  in  the  family  :  but  I  solemnly  protest 
I  had  no  hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and  after  an 
interval  of  twelve  years  we  had  two  sons  more. 

,  It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  my  exultation  when  I  saw 
my  little  ones  about  me  ;  but  the  vanity  and  the  satisfaction 
of  my  wife  were  even  greater  than  mine.  When  our  visitors 
would  say,  "  Well,  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have 
the  finest  children  in  the  whole  country."  —  "  Ay,  neighbour," 
she  would  answer,  "  they  are  as  heaven  made  them,  hand- 
some enough,  if  they  be  good  enough  ;  for  handsome  is 
that  handsome  does."  And  then  she  would  bid  .the  girls 
hold  up  their  heads  ;  who,  to  conceal  nothing,  were  cer- 
tainly very  handsome.  Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a  cir- 
cumstance with  me,  that  I  should  scarce  have  remembered 
to  mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a  general  topic  of  conver- 
sation in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  about  eighteen,  had  that 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  FAMILY.  239 

luxuriancy  of  beauty  with  which  painters  generally  draw 
Hebe;  open,  sprightly,  and  commanding.  Sophia's  fea- 
tures were  not  so  striking  at  first ;  but  often  did  more 
certain  execution  ;  for  they  were  soft,  modest,  and  alluring. 
The  one  vanquished  by  a  single  blow,  the  other  by  efforts 
successfully  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  formed  from  the 
turn  of  her  features,  at  least  it  was  so  with  my  daughters. 
Olivia  wished  for  many  lovers,  Sophia  to  secure  one 
Olivia  was  often  affected  from  too  great  a  desire  to  please. 
Sophia  even  repressed  excellence  from  her  fears  to  offend 
The  one  entertained  me  with  her  vivacity  when  I  was  gay, 
the  other  with  her  sense  when  I  was  serious.  But  these 
qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in  either,  and  I  have 
often  seen  them  exchange  characters  for  a  whole  day 
together.  A  suit  of  mourning  has  transformed  my  coquette 
into  a  prude,  and  a  new  set  of  ribands  has  given  her 
younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My  eldest  son, 
George,  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended  him  for  one  of 
Lhe  learned  professions.  My  second  boy,  Moses,  whom  I 
designed  for  business,  received  a  sort  of  miscellaneous 
education  at  home.  But  it  is  needless  to  attempt  de- 
scribing the  particular  characters  of  young  people  that  had 
>een  but  very  little  of  the  world.  In  short,  a  family  like- 
;.  ss  prevailed  through  all  ;  and,  properly  speaking,  the) 
but  one  character,  that  of  being  all  equally  generous, 
•us,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


CHAPTER   II. 


FAMILY    MISFORTUNES.       THE  LOSS  OF  FORTUNE  ONLY  SERVES  TO 
INCREASE  THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WORTHY. 

HE  temporal  concerns  of  our  family  were  chiefly 
committed  to  my  wife's  management  ;  as  to 
the  spiritual,  I  took  them  entirely  under  my 
own  direction.  The  profits  of  my  living,  which 
amounted  to  but  thirty-five  pounds  a  year,  I  made  over  to 
the  orphans  and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese  ;  for, 
having  a  sufficient  fortune  of  my  own,  I  was  careless  of  tem- 
poralities, and  felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  doing  my  duty  with- 
out reward.  I  also  set  a  resolution  of  keeping  no  curate, 
and  of  being  acquainted  with  every  man  in  the  parish,  ex- 
horting the  married  men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors 
to  matrimony  ;  so  that  in  a  few  years  it  was  a  common  say- 
ing, that  there  were  three  strange  wants  at  Wakefield,  a 
parson  wanting  pride,  young  men  wanting  wives,  and  ale- 
houses wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite  topics,  and  I 
wrote  several  sermons  to  prove  its  happiness  :  but  there  was 
a  peculiar  tenet  which  I  made  a  point  of  supporting  :  for  I 


FA  MIL  Y  MISfOR  TUNES.  241 

maintained  with  Whiston,  that  it  was  unlawful  for  a  priest 
of  the  church  of  England,  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife, 
to  take  a  second,  or,  to  express  it  in  one  word,  I  valued 
myself  upon  being  a  strict  monogamist. 

1  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute,  en  which 
so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been  written.  I  published 
some  tracts  upon  the  subject  myself,  which,  as  they  never 
sold,  I  have  the  consolation  of  thinking  are  read  only  by 
the  happy  few.  Some  of  my  friends  called  this  my  weak 
side  ;  but  alas  !  they  had  not  like  me  made  it  a  subject  of 
long  contemplation.  The  more  I  reflected  upon  it,  the 
more  important  it  appeared  ;  I  even  went  a  step  beyond 
Whiston  in  displaying  my  principles  :  as  he  had  engraven 
upon  his  wife's  tomb  that  she  was  the  only  wife  of  William 
Whiston  ;  so  I  wrote  a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife,  though 
still  living,  in  which  I  extolled  her  prudence,  economy,  and 
obedience,  till  death  ;  and  having  got  it  copied  fair,  with  an 
elegant  frame,  it  was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  where 
it  answered  several  very  useful  purposes.  It  admonished 
my  wife  of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to  her  ;  it  in- 
spired her  with  a  passion  for  fame,  and  constantly  put  hrr 
in  mind  of  her  id. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so  often  re- 
commended, that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon  leaving  college, 
fixed  his  affections  upon  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring 
clergyman,  who  was  a  dignitary  in  the  church,  and  in  cir- 
cumstances to  give  her  a  large  fortune  ;  but  fortune  was 
her  smallest  accomplishment.  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was 

allowed  by  all  (exrept  my  two  daughters)  to  be  completely 

16 


24*  TffE  V7CAR  Of  WAKE  FIELD. 

pretty.  Her  youth,  health,  and  innocence  were  still  height- 
ened by  a  complexion  so  transparent,  and  such  a  happy 
sensibility  of  look,  as  even  age  could  not  gaze  on  with  in- 
difference. As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  that  I  could  make  a  very 
handsome  settlement  on  my  son,  he  was  not  averse  to  the 
match ;  so  both  families  lived  together  in  all  that  harmony 
which  generally  precedes  an  expected  alliance.  Being  con- 
vinced by  experience  that  the  days  of  courtship  are  the 
most  happy  of  our  lives,  I  was  willing  enough  to  lengthen 
the  period  ;  and  the  various  amusements  which  the  young 
couple  every  day  shared  in  each  other's  company,  seemed 
to  increase  their  passion.  We  were  generally  awaked  in 
the  morning  by  music,  and  on  fine  days  rode  a-hunting 
The  hours  between  breakfast  and  dinner  the  ladies  devoted 
to  dress  and  study :  they  usually  read  a  page,  and  then 
gazed  at. themselves  in  the  glass,  which  even  philosophers 
might  own  often  presented  the  page  of  greatest  beauty. 

At  dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead  ;  for,  as  she  always 
insisted  upon  carving  everything  herself,  it  being  her 
mother's  way,  she  gave  us  upon  these  occasions  the  his- 
tory of  every  dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to  prevent  the 
ladies  leaving  us,  I  generally  ordered  the  table  to  be  re- 
moved ;  and  sometimes,  with  the  music- master's  assistance, 
the  girls  would  give  us  a  very  agreeable  concert.  Walking 
out,  drinking  tea,  country-dances,  and  forfeits,  shortened 
the  rest  of  the  day,  without  the  assistance  of  cards,  as  1 
hated  all  manner  of  gaming,  except  backgammon,  at  which 
my  old  friend  and  I  sometimes  took  a  twopenny  hit.  Nor 
can  I  here  pass  over  an  ominous  circumstance  that  hap- 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES.  243 

pened  the  last  time  we  played  together ;  I  only  wanted  to 
fling  a  quartre,  and  yet  I  threw  deuce-ace  five  times 
running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till  at  last  it 
was  thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for  the  nuptials  of  the 
young  couple,  who  se.emed  earnestly  to  desire  it.  During 
the  preparations  for  the  wedding,  I  need  not  describe  the 
busy  importance  of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my 
daughters ;  in  fact,  my  attention  was  fixed  on  another 
object,  the  completing  a  tract  which  I  intended  shortly  to 
publish  in  defence  of  my  favourite  principle.  As  I  looked 
upon  this  as  a  master-piece,  both  for  argument  and  style,  I 
could  not  in  the  pride  of  my  heart  avoid  showing  it  to  my 
old  friend  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  I  made  no  doubt  of  receiving  his 
approbation ;  but  not  till  too  late  I  discovered  that  he  was 
most  violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opinion,  and  with 
good  reason ;  for  he  was  at  that  time  actually  courting  a 
fourth  wife.  This,  as  may  be  expected,  produced  a  dispute 
attended  with  some  acrimony,  which  threatened  to  inter- 
rupt our  intended  alliance ;  but  on  the  day  before  that 
appointed  for  the  ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the  sub- 
ject at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on-  both  sides  ;  he 
asserted  that  I  was  heterodox,  I  retorted  the  charge :  he 
replied,  and  I  rejoined.  In  the  mean  time,  while  the  con- 
troversy was  hottest,  I  was  called  out  by  one  of  my  rela- 
tions, who,  with  a  face  of  concern,  advised  me  to  gu'e  up 
the  dispute,  at  least  till  my  son's  wedding  was  over, 
•Howl"  cried  I,  "relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and 


*44  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIEL&. 

him  be  a  husband,  already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of 
absurdity  ?  You  might  as  well  advise  me  to  give  up  my 
fortune  as  my  argument."  "  Your  fortune,"  returned  my 
friend,  "  I  am  now  sorry  to  inform  you,  is  almost  nothing. 
The  merchant  in  town,  in  whose  hands  your  money  was 
lodged,  has  gone  off,  to  avoid  a  statute  of  bankruptcy,  and 
is  thought  not  to  have  left  a  shilling  in  the  pound.  I  was 
unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the  family  with  the  account  till 
after  the  wedding :  but  now  it  may  serve  to  moderate  your 
warmth  in  the  argument;  for,  I  suppose,  your  own  prudence 
will  enforce  the  necessity  of  dissembling,  at  least  till  your 
son  has  the  young  lady's  fortune  .secure."  —  "Well,"  re- 
turned I,  "  if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I  am  to  be  a 
beggar,  it  shall  never  make  me  a  rascal,  or  induce  me  to 
disavow  my  principles.  I'll  go  this  moment  and  inform  the 
company  of  my  circumstances  ;  and  as  for  the  argument,  I 
even  here  retract  my  former  concessions  in  the  old  gentle- 
man's favour,  nor  will  I  allow  him  now  to  be  a  husband  in 
any  sense  of  the  expression." 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different  sensations 
of  both  families  when  I  divulged  the  news  of  our  misfor- 
tune ;  but  what  others  felt  was  slight  to  what  the  lovers 
appeared  to  endure.  Mr.  Wilmot,  who  seemed  before  suf- 
ficiently inclined  to  break  off  the  match,  was  by  this  blo\\ 
soon  determined  ;  one  virtue  he  had  in  perfection,  which 
was  prudence,  too  often  the  only  one  that  is  left  us  at 
seventy-tw<k 


ticular. 


CHAPTER   IIL 

A  MIGRATION.      THE  FORTUNATE  CIRCUMSTANCES  OF  OUR  LIVES  ARK 
GENERALLY  FOUND  AT  LAST  TO  BE  OF  OUR  OWN  PROCURING. 

HE  only  hope'  of  our  family  now  was,  that  the 
report  of  our  misfortune  might  be  malicious  or 
premature  :  but  a  letter  from  my  agent  in  town 
soon  came  with  a  confirmation  of  every  par- 
The  loss  of  fortune  to  myself  alone  would  have 
been  trifling  ;  the  only  uneasiness  I  felt  was  for  my  family, 
who  were  to  be  humbled,  without  an  education  to  render 
them  callous  to  contempt. 

Near  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  attempted  to  re- 
strain their  affliction  .  for  premature  consolation  is  but  the 
remembrancer  of  sorrow.  During  this  interval,  my  thoughts 
were  employed  on  some  future  means  of  supporting  them ; 
and  at  last  a  small  cure  of  fifteen  pounds  a  year  was  offered 
me  in  a  distant  neighbourhood,  where  I  could  still  enjoy 
my  principles  without  molestation. 

With  this  proposal  I  joyfully  closed,  having  determined 
to  increase  my  salary  by  managing  a  little  farm 

Having  taken  this  resolution  my  next  care  was  to  get 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune  :  and  all  debts  collected 
and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand  pounds  we  had  but  four 
hundred  remaining.  My  chief  attention  therefore  was  now 
to  bring  down  the  pride  of  my  family  to  their  circum- 
stances ;  for  I  well  knew  that  aspiring  beggary  is  wretched- 
ness itself. 

"  You  cannot  be  ignorant,  my  children,"  cried  I,  "  that 
no  prudence  of  ours  could  have  prevented  our  late 
misfortune  ;  but  prudence  may  do  much  in  disappointing 
its  effects.  We  are  now  poor,  my  fondlings,  and  wisdom 
bids  us  to  conform  to  our  humble  situation.  Let  us  then, 
without  repining,  give  up  those  splendours  with  which  num- 
bers are  wretched,  and  seek  in  humbler  circumstances  that 
peace  with  which  all  may  be  happy.  The  poor  live  plea- 
santly without  our  help,  why  then  should  not  we  learn  to 
live  without  theirs  ?  No,  my  children,  let  us  from  this 
moment  give  up  all  pretensions  to  gentility  ;  we  have  still 
enough  left  for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw 
upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune." 

As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a  scholar,  I  determined  to 
send  him  to  town,  where  his  abilities  might  contribute  to 
our  support  and  his  own.  The  separation  of  friends  and 
families  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  distressful  circum- 
stances attendant  on  penury.  The  day  soon  arrived  on 
which  we  were  to  disperse  for  the  first  time.  My  son,  after 
taking  leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest,  who  mingled  their 
tears  with  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a  blessing  from  me. 
This  I  gave  him  from  my  heart,  and  which,  added  to  five 
guineas,  was  all  the  patrimony  I  had  now  to  bestow 


A  MIGRA  raw.  247 


"  You  are  going,  my  boy,"  cried  I,  "  to  London  on  foot,  in 
the  manner  Hooker,  your  great  ancestor,  travelled  there 
before  you.  Take  from  me  the  same  horse  that  was  given 
him  by  the  good  Bishop  Jewel,  this  staff,  and  take  this 
book  too,  it  will  be  your  comfort  on  the  way :  these  two 
lines  in  it  are  worth  a  million,  '  I  have  been  young,  and  now 
am  old  ;  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous  man  forsaken,  or  his 
seed  begging  their  bread.'  Let  this  be  your  consolation  as 
you  travel  on.  Go,  my  boy ;  whatever  be  thy  fortune  let 
me  see  thee  once  a  year ;  still  keep  a  good  heart,  and  fare- 
well." As  he  was  possessed  of  integrity  and  honour,  I  was 
under  no  apprehensions  from  throwing  him  naked  into  the 
amphitheatre  of  life  ;  for  I  knew  he  would  act  a  good  part 
whether  vanquished  or  victorious. 

His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our  own,  which 
arrived  a  few  days  afterwards.  The  leaving  a  neighbourhood 
in  which  we  had  enjoyed  so  many  hours  of  tranquillity, 
was  not  without  a  tear  which  scarce  fortitude  itself  could 
suppress.  Besides,  a  journey  of  seventy  miles  to  a  family 
that  had  hitherto  never  been  above  ten  from  home,  filled 
us  with  apprehension,  and  the  cries  of  the  poor,  who  fol- 
lowed us  for  some  miles,  contributed  to  increase  it  The 
first  day's  journey  brought  us  in  safety  within  thirty  miles 
of  our  future  retreat,  and  we  put  up  for  the  night  at  an 
obscure  inn  in  a  village  by  the  way.  When  we  were  shown 
a  room,  I  desired  the  landlord,  in  my  usual  way,  to  let  us 
have  his  company,  with  which  he  complied,  as  what  he 
drank  would  increase  the  bill  next  morning.  He  knew, 
however,  the  whole  neighbourhood  to  which  I  was  removing, 


248  THE  VKAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


particularly  Squire  Thornhill,  who  was  to  be  my  landlord, 
and  who  lived  within  a  few  miles  of  the  place.  This  gentle- 
man he  described  as  one  who  desired  to  know  little  more  of 
the  world  than  its  pleasures,  being  particularly  remarkable 
for  his  attachment  to  the  fair  sex.  He  observed  that  no 
virtue  was  able  to  resist  his  arts  and  assiduity,  and  that  there 
was  scarce  a  farmer's  daughter  within  ten  miles  round  but 
what  had  found  him  successful  and  faithless.  Though  this 
account  gave  me  some  pain,  it  had  a  very  different  effect 
upon  my  daughters,  whose  features  seemed  to  brighten  with 
the  expectation  of  an  approaching  triumph  ;  nor  was  my 
wife  less  pleased  and  confident  of  their  allurements  and 
virtue.  While  our  thoughts  were  thus  employed,  the 
hostess  entered  the  room  to  inform  her  husband,  that  the 
strange  gentleman,  who  had  been  two  days  in  the  house, 
wanted  money,  and  could  not  satisfy  them  for  his  reckon- 
ing. "  Want  money  !"  replied  the  host,  "  that  must  be  im- 
possible ;  for  it  was  no  later  than  yesterday  he  paid  three 
guineas  to  our  beadle  to  spare  an  old  broken  soldier  that 
was  to  be  whipped  through  the  town  for  dog-stealing." 
The  hostess,  however,  still  persisting  in  her.  first  assertion, 
he  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room,  swearing  that  he  would 
be  satisfied  one  way  or  another,  when  I  begged  the  land- 
lord would  introduce  me  to  a  stranger  of  so  much  charity  as 
he  described.  With  this  he  complied,  showing  in  a  gentle- 
man who  seemed  to  be  about  thirty,  dressed  in  clothes  that 
once  were  laced.  His  person  was  well-formed,  and  his  face 
marked  with  the  lines  of  thinking.  He  had  something 
short  and  dry  in  his  address,  and  seemed  not  to  understand 


A  MIGRA  TION. 


ceremony,  or  to  despise  it  Upon  the  landlord's  leaving 
the  room,  I  could  not  avoid  expressing  my  concern  to 
the  stranger  at  seeing  a  gentleman  in  such  circumstances, 
and  offered  my  purse  to  satisfy  the  present  demand.  "  I 
take  it  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  replied  he,  "and  am  glad 
that  a  late  oversight  in  giving  what  money  I  had  about 
me,  has  shown  me  that  there  are  still  some  men  like  you. 
I  must,  however,  previously  entreat  being  informed  of  the 
name  and  residence  of  my  benefactor,  in  order  to  repay 
him  as  soon  as  possible."  In  this  I  satisfied  him  fully,  not 
only  mentioning  my  name  and  late  misfortune,  but  the 
place  to  which  I  was  going  to  remove.  "  Tnis,"  cried  he, 
"  happens  still  more  lucky  than  I  hoped  for,  as  I  ~*n  going 
the  same  way  myself,  having  been  detained  here  two  days 
by  the  floods,  which,  I  hope,  by  to-morrow  will  be  found 
passable."  I  testified  the  pleasure  I  should  have  in  his 
company,  and,  my  wife  and  daughters  joining  in  entreaty,  he 
was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  supper.  The  stranger's  conver- 
sation, which  was  at  once  pleasing  and  instructive,  induced 
me  to  wish  for  a  continuance  of  it ;  but  it  was  now  high 
time  to  retire  and  take  refreshment  against  the  fatigues  of 
the  following  day. 

The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  together ;  my 
family  on  horseback,  while  Mr.  Burchell,  our  new  com- 
panion, walked  along  the  foot-path  by  the  road-side,  ob- 
serving, with  a  smile,  that,  as  we  were  ill-mounted,  he  would 
be  too  generous  to  attempt  leaving  us  behind.  As  the 
floods  were  not  yet  subsided,  we  were  obliged  to  hire  a 
,  who  trotted  on  before,  Mr.  Burchell  and  I  bringing 


85°  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 

up  the  rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the  road  with 
philosophical  disputes,  which  ne  seemed  to  understand  per- 
fectly. But  what  surprised  me  most  was,  that  though  he 
was  a  money-borrower,  he  defended  his  opinions  with  as 
much  obstinacy  as  if  he  had  been  my  patron.  He  now  and 
then  also  informed  me  to  whom  the  different  seats  belonged 
that  lay  in  our  view  as  we  travelled  the  road.  "  That," 
cried  he,  pointing  to  a  very  magnificent  house  which  stood 
at  some  distance,  "  belongs  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  a  young 
gentleman  who  enjoys  a  large  fortune,  though  entirely 
dependent  on  the  will  of  his  uncle,  Sir  William.Thornhill ; 
a  gentleman,  who,  content  with  a  little  himself,  permits  his 
nephew  to  enjoy  the  rest,  and  chiefly  resides  in  town." — 
"What!"  cried  I,  "is  my  young  landlord  then  the  nephew 
of  a  man  whose  virtues,  generosity,  and  singularities,  are  so 
universally  known  ?  I  have  heard  Sir  William  Thornhill 
represented  as  one  of  the  most  generous,  yet  whimsical 
men  in  the  kingdom  ;  a  man  of  consummate  benevolence." 
— "  Something,  perhaps,  too  much  so,"  replied  Mr.  Burchell ; 
"  at  least  he  carried  benevolence  to  an  excess  when  young ; 
for  his  passions  were  then  strong,  and  as  they  all  were 
upon  the  side  of  virtue,  they  led  it  up  to  a  romantic  extreme. 
He  early  began  to  aim  at  the  qualifications  of  the  soldier 
and  the  scholar ;  was  soon  distinguished  in  the  army, 
and  had  some  reputation  among  men  of  learning.  Adula- 
tion ever  follows  the  ambitious,  for  such  alone  receive 
most  pleasure  from  flattery.  He  was  surrounded  with 
ctowds,  who  showed  him  only  one  side  of  their  character; 
50  that  he  began  to  lose  a  regard  for  private  interest  in 


A  MIGRATION.  *5I 


universal  sympathy.  He  loved  all  mankind ;  for  fortune 
prevented  him  from  knowing  that  they  were  rascals. 
Physicians  tell  us  of  a  disorder  in  which  the  whole  body  is 
so  exquisitely  sensible,  that  the  slightest  touch  gives  pain; 
what  some  have  thus  suffered  in  their  persons,  this  gentle- 
man felt  in  his  mind.  The  slightest  distress,  whether  real 
or  fictitious,  touched  him  to  the  quick,  and  his  soul  laboured 
under  a  sickly  sensibility  of  the*  miseries  of  others.  Thus 
disposed  to  relieve,  it  will  be  easily  conjectured,  he  found 
numbers  disposed  to  solicit :  his  profusions  began  to  impair 
his  fortune^  but  not  his  good-nature ;  that,  indeed,  was  seen 
to  increase  as  the  other  seemed  to  decay ;  he  grew  improvi- 
dent as  he  grew  poor  ;  and  though  he  talked  like  a  man  of 
sense,  his  actions  were  those  of  a  fool.  Still,  however, 
being  surrounded  with  importunity,  and  no  longer  able  to 
satisfy  every  request  that  was  made  him,  instead  of  money 
he  gave  promises.  They  were  all  he  had  to  bestow,  and 
he  had  not  resolution  enough  to  give  any  man  pain  by  a 
denial.  By  this  he  drew  round  him  crowds  of  dependents, 
whom  he  was  sure  to  disappoint,  yet  wished  to  relieve. 
These  hung  upon  him  for  a  time,  and  left  him  with  merited 
reproaches  and  contempt.  But  in  proportion  as  he  became 
contemptible  to  others,  he  became  despicable  to  himself. 
His  mind  had  leaned  upon  their  adulation,  and  that 
support  taken  away,  he  could  find  no  pleasure  in  the 
applause  of  his  heart,  which  he  had  never  learned  to  rever- 
ence. The  world  now  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect; 
the  flattery  of  his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into  simple 
approbation.  Approbation  soon  took  the  more  friendly 


8S2  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

form  of  advice,  and  advice  when  rejected  produced  their 
reproaches.  He  now  therefore  found  that  such  friends  as 
benefits  had  gathered  round  him,  were  little  estimable ;  he 
now  found  that  a  man's  own  heart  must  be  ever  given  to 

gain   that   of  another.      I    now  found,  that that 1 

forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe :  in  short,  sir,  he 
resolved  to  respect  himself,  and  laid  down  a  plan  of  restor- 
ing his  falling  fortune.  For  this  purpose,  in  his  own  whim- 
sical manner,  he  travelled  through  Europe  on  foot ;  and 
now,  though  he  has  scarce  attained  the  age  of  thirty,  his 
circumstances  are  more  affluent  than  ever.  At  present,  his 
bounties  are  more  rational  and  moderate  than  before  ;  but 
he  still  preserves  the  character  of  a  humourist,  and  finds 
most  pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues." 

My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr.  Burchell's 
account,  that  I  scarce  looked  forward  as  we  went  along, 
till  we  were  alarmed  by  the  cries  of  my  family,  when  turn- 
ing, I  perceived  my  youngest  slaughter  in  the  midst  of  a 
rapid  stream,  thrown  from  her  horse,  and  struggling  with 
the  torrent.  She  had  sunk  twice,  nor  was  it  in  my  power 
to  disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring  her  relief.  My  sensa- 
tions were  even  too  violent  to  permit  my  attempting  her 
rescue ;  she  must  have  certainly  perished  had  not  my  com- 
panion, perceiving  her  danger,  instantly  plunged  in  to  her 
relief,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  brought  her  in  safety  to 
the  opposite  shore.  By  taking  the  current  a  little  further 
up,  the  rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over  ;  where  we  had  an 
opportunity  of  joining  our  acknowledgments  to  hers.  Her 
gratitude  may  be  more  readily  imagined  than  described  ; 


A  MIGRATION.  253 


she  thanked  her  deliverer  more  with  looks  than  words,  and 
continued  to  lean  upon  his  arm,  as  if  still  willing  to  receive 
assistance.  My  wife  also  hoped  one  day  to  have  the  plea- 
sure of  returning  his  kindness  at  her  own  house.  Thus, 
after  we  were  refreshed  at  the  next  inn,  and  had  dined 
together,  as  Mr.  Burchell  was  going  to  a  different  part  of 
the  country,  he  took  leave,  and  we  pursued  our  journey : 
my  wife  observing  as  he  went,  that  she  liked  him  extremely, 
and  protesting,  that  if  he  had  birth  and  fortune  to  entitle 
him  to  match  into  such  a  family  as  ours,  she  knew  no  man 
she  would  sooner  fix  upon.  I  could  not  but  smile  to  hear 
her  talk  in  this  lofty  strain ;  but  I  was  never  much  dis- 
pleased with  those  harmless  delusions  that  tend  to  make  us 
more  happy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A  PROOF  THAT  EVEN  THE  HUMBLEST  FORTUNE  MAY  GRANT  HAP- 
PINESS, WHICH  DEPENDS  NOT  ON  CIRCUMSTANCES,  BUT  CON- 
STITUTION. 

JHE  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neighbour- 
hood, consisting  of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own 
grounds,  and  were  equal  strangers  to  opulence 
and  poverty.  As  they  had  almost  all  the  con- 
veniences of  life  within  themselves,  they  seldom  visited 
towns  or  cities  in  search  of  superfluity.  Remote  from  the 
polite,  they  still  retained  the  primaeval  simplicity  of  man- 
ners ;  and  frugal  by  habit,  they  scarcely  knew  that  temper- 
ance was  a  virtue.  They  wrought  with  cheerfulness  on 
days  of  labour  ;  but  observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idle- 
ness and  pleasure.  They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent 
true-love  knots  on  Valentine  morning,  eat  pancakes  on 
Sh  rove-tide,  showed  their  wit  on  the  first  of  April,  and 
religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas  eve.  Being  ap- 
prised of  our  approach,  the  whole  neighbourhood  came  out 
to  meet  their  minister,  dressed  in  their  fine  clothes,  and 
preceded  by  a  pipe  and  tabor:  a  feast  also  was  provided 


FHE  HUMBLES  T  FOR  TUNE  MA  Y  GRANT  HAPPINESS.     255 

for  our  reception,  at  which  we  sate  cheerfully  down  :  and 
what  the  conversation  wanted  in  wit,  was  made  up  in 
'aughter. 

Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of  a  sloping 
hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood  behind,  and  a 
prattling  river  before  :  on  one  side  a  meadow,  on  the  other 
a  green.  My  farm  consisted  of  about  twenty  acres  of  ex- 
cellent land,  having  given  a  hundred  pounds  for  my  pre- 
decessor's goodwill.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  neatness  of 
my  little  enclosures  :  the  elms  and  hedge-rows  appeared 
with  inexpressible  beauty.  My  house  consisted  of  but  one 
story,  and  was  covered  with  thatch,  which  gave  it  an  air  of 
great  snugness  ;  the  walls  on  the  inside  were  nicely  white- 
washed, and  my  daughters  undertook  to  adorn  them  with 
pictures  of  their  own  designing.  Though  the  same  room 
served  us  for  parlour  and  kitchen,  that  only  made  it  the 
warmer.  Besides,  as  it  was  kept  with  the  utmost  neatness, 
the  dishes,  p!  s  and  coppers,  being  well  scoured,  and  all 
disposed  in  bright  rows  on  the  shelves,  the  eye  was  agree- 
ably relieved,  and  did  not  want  rich  furniture.  There 
were  three  other  apartments,  one  for  my  wife  and  me,  an- 
other for  our  two  daughters,  within  our  own,  and  the  third, 
with  two  beds,  for  the  rest  of  the  children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws,  was  regulated  in 
the  following  manner  :  by  sun-rise  we  all  assembled  in  our 
common  apartment ;  the  fire  being  previously  kindled  by 
the  servant.  After  we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper 
ceremony,  for  I  always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  me- 
chanical forms  of  good  breeding,  without  which  freedom  eve/ 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in  gratitude  to  that  Being 
who  gave  us  another  day.  This  duty  being  performed,  my 
son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our  usual  industry  abroad,  while 
my  wife  and  my  daughters  employed  themselves  in  provid- 
ing breakfast,  which  was  always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I 
allowed  half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for  dinner; 
which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent  mirth  between  my 
wife  and  daughters,  and  in  philosophical  arguments  between 
my  son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued  our  labours 
after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned  home  to  the  expect 
ing  family  ;  where  smiling  looks,  a  neat  hearth,  and  pleas- 
ant fire,  were  prepared  for  our  reception.  Nor  were  we 
without  guests  :  sometimes  Farmer  Flamborough,  our  talk- 
ative neighbour,  and  often  the  blind  piper,  would  pay  us  a 
visit,  and  taste  our  gooseberry  wine  ;  for  the  making  of 
which  we  had  lost  neither  the  receipt  nor  the  reputation. 
These  harmless  people  had  several  ways  of  being  good 
company  :  for  while  one  played  the  other  would  sing  some 
soothing  ballad,  Johnny  Armstrong's  last  good  night,  or 
the  cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen.  The  night  was  concluded 
in  the  manner  we  began  the  morning,  my  youngest  boys 
being  appointed  to  read  the  lessons  of  the  day,  and  he  that 
read  the  loudest,  distinctest,  and  best,  was  to  have  a  half- 
penny on  Sunday  to  put  into  the  poor's  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  finery,  which 
all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  restrain.  How  well  so- 
ever I  fancied  my  lectures  against  pride  had  conquered  the 
vanity  of  my  daughters  ;  yet  I  still  found  them  secretly 


THE  HUMBLEST  FOR  TUNE  MA  Y  GRANT  HAPPINESS,    a;,  7 

attached  to  all  their  former  finery :  they  still  loved  laces, 
ribands,  bugles,  and  catgut ;  my  wife  herself  retained  a 
passion  for  her  crimson  paduasoy,  because  I  formerly  hap- 
pened to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday,  in  particular,  their  behaviour  served  to 
mortify  me :  I  had  desired  my  girls  the  preceding  night  to 
be  dressed  early  the  next  day ;  for  I  always  loved  to  be  at 
church  a  good  while  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation. 
They  punctually  obeyed  my  directions ;  but  when  we  were 
to  assemble  in  the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  came  my 
wife  and  daughters,  dressed  out  in  all  their  former  splen- 
dour :  their  hair  plastered  up  with  pomatum,  their  faces 
patched  to  taste,  their  trains  bundled  up  into  a  heap  behind, 
and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at 
their  vanity,  particularly  that  of  my  wife,  from  whom  I 
expected  more  discretion.  In  this  exigence,  therefore,  my 
only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with  an  important  air, 
to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were  amazed  at  the  command 
but  I  repeated  it  with  more  solemnity  than  before. — 
"  Surely,  my  dear,  you  jest,"  cried  my  wife,  "  we  can  walk 
it  perfectly  well :  we  want  no  coach  to  carry  as  now." — 
"  You  mistake,  child,"  returned  I,  "  we  do  want  a  coach ; 
for  if  we  walk  to  church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  of 
the  parish  will  hoot  after  us." — "  Indeed,"  replied  my  wife, 
44 1  always  imagined  that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  seeing  his 
children  neat  and  handsome  about  him." — "  You  may  be 
as  neat  as  you  please,"  interrupted  I,  "  and  I  shall  love  you 
the  better  for  it ;  but  all  this  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery. 
These  rufflings,  and  pinkings,  and  patchings,  will  onlv  make 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


us  hated  by  all  the  wives  of  our  neighbours.  No.  my 
children,"  continued  I,  more  gravely,  "  those  gowns  may  be 
altered  into  something  of  a  plainer  cut  ;  for  finery  is  very 
unbecoming  in  us,  who  want  the  means  of  decency.  I  do 
not  know  whether  such  flouncing  and  shredding  is  becom- 
ing even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider,  upon  a  moderate  calcu- 
lation, that  the  nakedness  of  the  indigent  world  may  be 
clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain." 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect  ;  they  went  with 
great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to  change  their  dress  ; 
and  the  next  da)'  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  my 
daughters,  at  their  own  request,  employed  in  cutting  up 
their  trains  into  Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the 
two  little  ones,  and  what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the 
gowns  seemed  improved  by  this  curtailing. 


CHAPTER    V. 


4  NEW  AND  GREAT  ACQUAINTANCE  INTRODUCED. — WHAT  WE   PLACE 
MOST   HOPES   UPON,   GENERALLY   PROVES  MOST  FA1AL. 

T  a  small  distance  from  the  house  my  predecessor 
had  made  a  seat,  overshaded  by  a  hedge  of 
hawthorn  and  honeysuckle.  Here,  when  the 
weather  was  fine  and  our  labour  soon  finished1 
we  usually  sat  together,  to  enjoy  an  extensive  landscape,  in 
the  calm  of  the  evening.  Here,  too,  we  drank  tea  which 
was  now  become  an  occasional  banquet ;  and  as  we  had  it 
but  seldom,  it  diffused  a  new  joy,  the  preparation  for  it 
being  made  with  no  small  share  of  bustle  and  ceremony. 
On  these  occasions  our  two  little  ones  always  read  for  us, 
and  they  were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done.  Some- 
times, to  give  a  variety  to  our  amusements,  the  girls  sung 
to  the  guitar ;  and  while  they  thus  formed  a  little  concert, 
my  wife  and  I  would  stroll  down  the  sloping  field,  that  was 
embellished  with  blue-bells  and  centaury,  talk  of  our  chil- 
dren with  rapture,  and  enjoy  the  breeze  that  wafted  both 
health  and  harmony. 

In  this  manner  we  began  to  find  that  every  situation  in 

17 — 2 


«6o  TffE  WCAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

life  may  bring  its  own  peculiar  pleasures :  every  morning 
waked  us  to  a  repetition  of  toil ;  but  the  evening  repaid  it 
with  vacant  hilarity. 

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a  holiday  (for 
I  kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation  from  labour),  that  I 
had  drawn  out  my  family  to  our  usual  place  of  amusement, 
and  our  young  musicians  began  their  usual  concert.  As 
we  were  thus  engaged  we  saw  a  stag  bound  nimbly  by, 
within  about  twenty  paces  of  where  we  were  sitting,  and  by 
its  panting  it  seemed  pressed  by  the  hunters.  We  had  not 
much  time  to  reflect  upon  the  poor  animal's  distress,  when 
we  perceived  the  dogs  and  horsemen  come  sweeping  along 
at  some  distance  behind,  and  making  the  very  path  it  had 
taken.  I  was  instantly  for  returning  in  with  my  family ; 
but  either  curiosity  or  surprise,  or  some  more  hidden  mo- 
tive, held  my  wife  and  daughters  to  their  seats.  The  hunts 
man,  who  rode  foremost,  passed  us  with  great  swiftness 
followed  by  four  or  five  persons  more,  who  seemed  in 
equal  haste.  At  last,  a  young  gentleman  of  a  more  gentee! 
appearance  than  the  rest,  came  forward,  and  while  regard- 
ing us,  instead  of  pursuing  the  chase,  stopped  short,  and 
giving  his  horse  to  a  servant  who  attended,  approached  us 
with  a  careless  superior  air.  He  seemed  to  want  no  intro- 
duction, but  was  going  to  salute  my  daughters  as  one 
certain  of  a  kind  reception  ;  but  they  had  early  learned  the 
lesson  of  looking  presumption  out  of  countenance.  Upon 
which  he  let  us  know  his  name  was  Thornhill,  and  that  he 
was  owner  of  the  estate  that  lay  for  some  extent  round  us. 
He  again  therefore  offered  to  salute  the  female  nart  of  the 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE  fNTJtODUCED.  ebi 

family ;  and  such  was  the  power  of  fortune  and  fine  clothes, 
that  he  found  no  second  repulse.  As  his  address,  though 
confident,  was  easy,  we  soon  became  more  familiar ;  and 
perceiving  musical  instruments  lying  near,  he  begged  to  be 
favoured  with  a  song.  As  I  did  not  approve  of  such  dis- 
proportioned  acquaintances,  I  winked  upon  my  daughters 
in  order  to  prevent  their  compliance ;  but  my  hint  was 
counteracted  by  one  from  their  mother ;  so  that,  with  a 
cheerful  air,  they  gave  us  a  favourite  song  of  Dryden's. 
Mr.  Thornhill  seemed  highly  delighted  with  their  perform- 
ance and  choice,  and  then  took  up  the  guitar  himself.  He 
played  but  very  indifferently ;  however,  my  eldest  daughter 
repaid  his  former  applause  with  interest,  and  assured  him 
that  his  tones  were  louder  than  even  those  of  her  master. 
At  this  compliment  he  bowed,  which  she  returned  with  a 
courtesy.  He  praised  her  taste,  and  she  commended  his 
understanding :  an  age  could  not  have  made  them  better 
acquainted.  While  the  fond  mother,  too,  equally  happy, 
insisted  upon  our  landlord's  stepping  in,  and  taking  a  glass 
of  her  gooseberry.  The  whole  family  seemed  earnest  to 
please  him  :  my  girls  attempted  to  entertain  him  with  topics 
they  thought  most  modern,  while  Moses,  on  the  contrary, 
gave  him  a  question  or  two  from  the  ancients,  for  which  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  being  laughed  at ;  my  little  ones 
were  no  less  busy,  and  fondly  stuck  close  to  the  stranger. 
All  my  endeavours  could  scarcely  keep  their  dirty  fingers 
from  handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on  his  clothes,  and 
lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket-holes,  to  see  what  was 
there.  At  the  approach  of  evening  he  took  leave  ;  but  not 


»62  THE  I'TCAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

till  he  had  requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit,  which, 
as  he  was  our  landlord,  we  most  readily  agreed  to. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a  council  on  the 
conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opinion,  that  it  was  a  most 
fortunate  hit ;  for  that  she  had  known  even  stranger  things 
at  last  brought  to  bear.  She  hoped  again  to  see  the  day 
in  which  we  might  hold  up  our  heads  with  the  best  of  them  ; 
and  concluded,  she  protested  she  could  see  no  reason  why 
the  two  Miss  Wrinklers  should  marry  great  fortunes,  and 
her  children  get  none.  As  this  last  argument  was  directed 
to  me,  I  protested  I  could  see  no  reason  for  it  either,  nor 
why  Mrs.  Simpkins  got  the  ten  thousand  pounds  prize  in 
the  lottery,  and  we  sate  down  with  a  blank.  "  I  protest, 
Charles,"  cried  my  wife,  "  this  is  the  way  you  always  damp 
my  girls  and  me  when  we  are  in  spirits.  Tell  me,  Sophia, 
my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our  new  visitor  ?  Don't  you 
think  he  seemed  to  be  good-natured  ?" — "  Immensely  so, 
indeed,  mamma,"  replied  she.  "I  think  he  has  a  great 
deal  to  say. upon  everything,  and  is  never  at  a  loss:  and 
the  more  trifling  the  subject,  the  more  he  has  to  say." 
— "Yes,"  cried  Olivia,  "he  is  well  enough  for  a  man; 
but  for  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  him,  he  is  so  extremely 
impudent  and  familiar;  but  on  the  guitar  he  is  shocking." 
These  last  two  speeches  I  interpreted  by  contraries.  I 
found  by  this,  that  Sophia  internally  despised  as  much  as 
Olivia  secretly  admired  him. — "Whatever  may  be  your 
opinions  of  him,  my  children,"  oried  I,  "  to  confess  a  truth, 
he  has  not  prepossessed  me  in  his  favour.  Disproportioned 
friendships  ever  terminate  in  disgust ;  and  I  thought,  not 


ACQUAINTANCE  MTRODVCE&.  263 

withstanding  all  his  ease,  that  he  seemed  perfectly  sensibfe 
of  the  distance  between  us.  Let  us  keep  to  companions  of 
our  own  rank.  There  is  no  character  more  contemptible 
than  a  man  that  is  a  fortune-hunter;  and  I  can  see  no 
reason  why  fortune-hunting  women  should  not  be  con- 
temptible too.  Thus,  at  best,  we  shall  be  contemptible  if  his 
views  be  honourable ;  but  if  they  be  otherwise !  I  should 
shudder  but  to  think  of  that !  It  is  true  I  have  no  appre- 
hension from  the  conduct  of  my  children,  but  I  think  there 
are  some  from  his  character." — I  would  have  proceeded,  but 
for  the  interruption  of  a  servant  from  the  squire,  who,  with 
his  compliments,  sent  us  a  side  of  venison,  and  a  promise 
to  dine  with  us  some  days  after.  This  well-timed  present 
pleaded  more  powerfully  in  his  favour,  than  anything  I  had 
to  say  could  obviate.  I  therefore  continued  silent,  satisfied 
with  just  having  pointed  out  danger,  and  leaving  it  to  their 
own  discretion  to  avoid  it.  That  virtue  which  requires  to 
be  ever  guarded,  is  scarcely  worth  the  sentinel. 


CHAPTER    VL 

• 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  A  COUNTRY  FIRE-SIDE. 

we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with  some 
degree  of  warmth,  in  order  to  accommodate 
matters,  it  was  universally  agreed,  that  we 
should  have  a  part  of  the  venison  for  supper, 
and  the  girls  undertook  the  task  with  alacrity.  "  I  am 
sorry,"  cried  I,  "  that  we  have  no  neighbour  or  stranger  to 
take  part  in  this  good  cheer  :  feasts  of  this  kind  acquire  a 
double  relish  from  hospitality." — "  Bless  me,"  cried  my  wife, 
"  here  comes  our  good  friend  Mr.  Burchell,  that  saved  our 
Sophia,  and  that  run  you  down  fairly  in  the  argument." — 
"  Confute  me  in  argument,  child  !"  cried  I.  "  You  mistake 
there,  my  dear.  I  believe  there  are  but  few  that  can  do 
that :  I  never  dispute  your  abilities  at  making  a  goose-pie, 
and  I  beg  you'll  leave  argument  to  me."  As  I  spoke,  poor 
Mr.  Burchell  entered  the  house,  and  was  welcomed  by  the 
family,  who  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  while  little 
Dick  officiously  reached  him  a  chair. 

I  was  pleased  with  the  poor  man's  friendship  for  two 
reasons :  because  I  knew  that  he  wanted  mine,  and  I  knew 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  A  COUNTRY  FIRE-SIDE.          265 

him  to  be  friendly  as  far  as  he  was  able.  He  was  known 
in  our  neighbourhood  by  the  character  of  the  poor  gentle- 
man that  would  do  no  good  when  he  was  young,  though  he 
was  not  yet  thirty.  He  would  at  intervals  talk  with  great 
good  sense  ;  but  in  general  he  was  fondest  of  the  company 
of  children,  whom  he  used  to  call  harmless  little  men.  He 
was  famous,  I  found,  for  singing  them  ballads,  and  telling 
them  stories ;  and  seldom  went  out  without  something  in 
his  pockets  for  them,  a  piece  of  gingerbread  or  a  halfpenny 
whistle.  He  generally  came  for  a  few  days  into  our  neigh- 
bourhood once  a  year,  and  lived  upon  the  neighbours'  hospi- 
tality. He  sat  down  to  supper  among  us,  and  my  wife 
was  not  sparing  of  her  gooseberry  wine.  The  tale  went 
round ;  he  sung  us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the 
story  of  the  Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient 
Grizzel.the  adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair  Rosamond's 
Bower.  Our  cock,  which  always  crew  at  eleven,  now  told 
us  it  was  time  for  repose ;  but  an  unforeseen  difficulty 
started  about  lodging  the  stranger :  all  our  beds  were  already 
taken  up,  and  it  was  too  late  to  send  him  to  the  next  ale- 
house. In  this  dilemma,  little  Dick  offered  him  his  part  of 
the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses  would  let  him  lie  with  him. 
"  And  I,"  cries  Bill,  "  will  give  Mr.  Burchell  my  part,  if  my 
sisters  will  take  me  to  theirs." — "  Well  done,  my  good 
children,"  cried  I  ;  "  hospitality  is  one  of  the  first  Christian 
duties.  The  beast  retires  to  his  shelter,  and  the  bird  flies 
to  his  nest ;  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge  from  his 
fellow-creature.  The  greatest  stranger  in  this  world  was  He 
that  came  to  save  it  He  never  had  a  house,  as  if  willing 


866  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

to  see  what  hospitality  was  left  remaining  amongst  us. 
Deborah,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  to  my  wife,  "  give  those  boys 
a  lump  of  sugar  each,  and  let  Dick's  be  the  largest,  because 
he  spoke  first." 

In  the  morning  early  I  called  out  my  whole  family  to 
help  at  saving  an  after  growth  of  hay,  and  our  guest 
offering  his  assistance,  he  was  accepted  among  the  number. 
Our  labours  went  on  lightly,  we  turned  the  swath  to  the 
wind.  I  went  foremost,  and  the  rest  followed  in  due 
succession.  I  could  not  avoid,  however,  observing  the 
assiduity  of  Mr.  Burchell  in  assisting  my  daughter  Sophia 
in  her  part  of  the  task.  When  he  had  finished  his  own,  he 
would  join  in  hers  and  enter  into  a  close  conversation  :  but 
I  had  too  good  an  opinion  of  Sophia's  understanding,  and 
was  too  well  convinced  of  her  ambition,  to  be  under  any 
uneasiness  from  a  man  of  broken  fortune.  When  we  were 
finished  for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was  invited  as  on  the 
night  before ;  but  he  refused,  as  he  was  to  lie  that  night  at 
a  neighbour's  to  whose  child  he  was  carrying  a  whistle. 
When  gone,  our  conversation  at  supper  turned  upon  our 
late  unfortunate  guest.  "  What  a  strong  instance,"  said  1, 
"  is  that  poor  man  of  the  miseries  attending  a  youth  of 
levity  and  extravagance.  He  by  no  means  wants  sense, 
which  only  serves  to  aggravate  his  former  folly.  Poor  for- 
lorn creature,  where  are  now  the  revellers,  the  flatterers  that 
he  could  once  inspire  and  command  ?  Gone,  perhaps,  to 
attend  the  bagnio  pander,  grown  rich  by  his  extravagance. 
They  once  praised  him,  and  now  they  applaud  the  pander : 
their  former  raptures  at  his  wit  are  now  converted  into  sar- 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  A  COUNTRY  FIRESIDE.  267 

casms  at  his  folly :  he  is  poor,  and  perhaps  deserves 
poverty  ;  for  he  has  neither  the  ambition  to  be  independent, 
nor  the  skill  to  be  useful."  Prompted  perhaps  by  some 
secret  reasons,  I  delivered  this  observation  with  too  much 
acrimony,  which  my  Sophia  gently  reproved.  "  Whatso- 
ever his  former  conduct  may  have  been,  papa,  his  circum- 
stances should  exempt  him  from  censure  now.  His  present 
indigence  is  a  sufficient  punishment  for  former  folly ;  and  I 
have  heard  my  papa  himself  say,  that  we  should  never 
strike  one  unnecessary  blow  at  a  victim  over  whom  Provi- 
dence holds  the  scourge  of  its  resentment." — "  You  are 
right,  Sophy,"  cried  my  son  Moses,  "  and  one  of  the 
ancients  finely  represents  so  malicious  a  conduct,  by  the 
attempts  of  a  rustic  to  flay  Marsyas,  whose  skin,  the  fable 
tells  us,  had  been  wholly  stripped  off  by  another.  Besides, 
I  don't  know  if  this  poor  man's  situation  be  so  bad  as  my 
father  would  represent  it.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the  feelings 
of  others  by  what  we  might  feel  if  in  their  place.  However 
dark  the  habitation  of  the  mole  to  our  eyes,  yet  the  animal 
itself  finds  the  apartment  sufficiently  lightsome.  And  to 
confess  a  truth,  this  man's  mind  seems  fitted  to  his  station  ; 
for  I  never  heard  any  one  more  sprightly  than  he  was  to- 
day, when  he  conversed  with  you." — This  was  said  without 
the  least  design ;  however,  it  excited  a  blush,  which  she 
strove  to  cover  by  an  affected  laugh,  assuring  him,  that  she 
scarcely  took  any  notice  of  what  he  said  to  her  ;  but  that 
she  believed  he  might  once  have  been  a  very  fine  gentleman. 
The  readiness  with  which  she  undertook  to  vindicate  herself 


*63 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


and  her   blushing,  were   symptoms  I   did    not   internally 
approve :  but  I  repressed  my  suspicions. 

As  we  expected  our  landlord  the  next  day,  my  wife  went 
to  make  the  venison  pasty;  Moses  sat  reading,  while  I 
taught  the  little  ones  ;  my  daughters  seemed  equally  busy 
with  the  rest ;  and  I  observed  them  for  a  good  while  cook- 
ing something  over  the  fire.  I  at  first  supposed  they  were 
assisting  their  mother ;  but  little  Dick  informed  me  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  were  making  a  wash  for  the  face. 
Washes  of  all  kinds  I  had  a  natural  antipathy  to ;  for  I 
knew  that  instead  of  mending  the  complexion  they  spoiled 
it.  I  therefore  approached  my  chair  by  slow  degrees  to  the 
fire,  and  grasping  the  poker,  as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seem- 
ingly by  accident,  overturned  the  whole  composition,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  begin  another. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  TOWN  WIT  DESCRIBED.     THE  DULLEST  FELLOWS  MAY  LEARN  TO 
BE  COMICAL   FOR  A  NIGHT  OR  TWO. 

IjHEN  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we  were  to 
entertain  our  young  landlord,  it  may  be  easily 
supposed  what  provisions  were  exhausted  to 
make  an  appearance.  It  may  be  also  con- 
jectured that  my  wife  and  daughters  expanded  their 
gayest  plumage  upon  this  occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came 
with  a  couple  of  friends,  his  chaplain  and  feeder.  The 
servants,  who  were  numerous,  he  politely  ordered  to  the 
next  alehouse  :  but  my  wife,  in  the  triumph  of  her  heart, 
insisted  on  entertaining  them  all ;  for  which,  by  the  bye, 
our  family  was  pinched  for  three  weeks  after.  As  Mr. 
Burchell  had  hinted  to  us  the  day  before,  that  he  was 
making  some  proposal  of  marriage  to  Miss  Wilmot,  my 
son  George's  former  mistress,  this  a  good  deal  damped  the 
heartiness  of  his  reception  :  but  accident,  in  some  measure, 
relieved  our  embarrassment ;  for  one  of  the  company  hap- 
pening to  mention  her  name,  Mr.  Thornhill  observed  with 
an  oath,  that  he  never  knew  anything  more  absurd  than 


270  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

calling  such  a  fright  a  beauty :  "  For  strike  me  ugly,"  con- 
tinued he,  "if  I  should  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in 
choosing  my  mistress  by  the  information  of  a  lamp  under 
the  clock  of  St.  Dunstan's."  At  this  he  laughed,  and  so 
did  we  : — the  jests  of  the  rich  are  ever  successful.  Olivia 
too  could  not  avoid  whispering  loud  enough  to  be  heard, 
that  he  had  an  infinite  fitnd  of  humour. 

After  dinner,  I  began  with  my  usual  toast,  the  Church  ; 
for  this  I  was  thanked  by  the  chaplain,  as  he  said  the 
Church  was  the  only  mistress  of  his  affections. — "  Come,  tel! 
us  honestly,  Frank,"  said  the  squire,  with  his  usual  arch- 
ness, "  suppose  the  Church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in 
lawn  sleeves,  on  the  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no  lawn 
about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be  for  ?" — "  For 
both,  to  be  sure,"  cried  the  chaplain. — "  Right,  Frank," 
cried  the  squire ;  "  for  may  this  glass  suffocate  me  but  a 
fine  girl  is  worth  all  the  priestcraft  in  the  creation.  Foi 
what  are  tithes  and  tricks  but  an  imposition,  all  a  con- 
founded imposture,  and  I  can  prove  it" — "  I  wish  you 
would,"  cried  my  son  Moses,  "  and  I  think,"  continued  he, 
"  that  I  should  be  able  to  answer  you." — "  Very  well,  sir," 
cried  the  squire,  who  immediately  smoked  him,  and  winked 
on  the  rest  of  the  company,  to  prepare  us  for  the  sport, 
"if  you  are  for  a  cool  argument  upon  the  subject,  I  am 
ready  to  accept  the  challenge.  And  first,  whether  are  you 
for  managing  it,  analogically  or  dialogically  ? " — "  I  am  for 
managing  it  rationally,"  cried  Moses,  quite  happy  at  being 
permitted  to  dispute. — "Good  again,"  cried  the  squire, 
"and  firstly  of  the  first  I  hooe  you'll  not  deny  that  what- 


A  TOWN  WIT  DESCRIBED.  271 

ever  is,  is.  If  you  don't  grant  me  that,  I  can  go  no 
further." — "  Why,"  returned  Moses,  "  I  think  I  may  grant 
that,  and  make  the  best  of  it" — "  I  hope  too,"  returned  the 
other,  "  you'll  grant  that  a  part  is  less  than  the  whole." — "  I 
grant  that  too,"  cried  Moses,  "it  is  but  just  and  reasonable." 
— "  I  hope,"  cried  the  squire,  "you'll  not  deny,  that  the  three 
angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones." — "  Nothing 
can  be  plainer,"  returned  the  other,  and  looked  round  him 
with  his  usual  importance, — "Very  well,"  cried  the  squire, 
speaking  very  quick,  "  the  premises  being  thus  settled,  I 
proceed  to  observe,  that  the  concatenation  of  self-existences, 
proceeding  in  a  reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produce 
a  problematical  dialogism,  which  in  some  measure  proves 
that  the  essence  of  spirituality  may  be  referred  to  the 
second  predicable." — "Hold,  hold,"  cried  the  other,  "I 
deny  that :  do  you  think  I  can  thus  tamely  submit  to  such 
heterodox  doctrines?" — "What,"  replied  the  squire,  as  if 
in  a  passion,  "  not  submit  ?  Answer  me  one  plain  question  : 
Do  you  think  Aristotle  right  when  he  says,  that  relatives 
are  related?" — "Undoubtedly,"  replied  the  other. — "If  so 
then,"  cried  the  squire,  "answer  me  directly  to  what  '! 
propose  :  Whether  do  you  judge  the  analytical  investigation 
of  the  first  part  of  my  enthymem  deficient  secundum  quoad, 
or  quoad  minus,  and  give  me  your  reasons,  I  say,  directly." 
"  I  protest,"  cried  Moses,  "  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  tru 
force  of  your  reasoning ;  but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one  single 
proposition,  I  fancy  it  may  then  have  an  answer." — "O, 
sir,"  cried  the  squire,  "  I  am  your  most  humble  servant 
1  find  you  want  me  to  furnish  you  with  arguments  and  in- 


27»  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 

tellect  toa  No,  sir,  there  I  protest  you  are  too  hard  for 
me."  This  effectually  raised  the  laugh  against  poor  Moses. 
who  sat  the  only  dismal  figure  in  a  group  of  merry  face- : 
nor  did  he  offer  a  single  syllable  more  during  the  wholt 
entertainment 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it  had  a  very 
different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who  mistook  it  for  humour, 
though  but  a  mere  act  of  the  memory.  She  thought  him 
therefore  a  very  fine  gentleman ;  and  such  as  consider  what 
powerful  ingredients  a  good  figure,  fine  clothes,  and  fortune, 
are  in  that  character,  will  easily  forgive  her.  Mr.  Thornhill, 
notwithstanding  his  real  ignorance,  talked  with  ease,  and 
could  expatiate  upon  the  common  topics  of  conversation 
with  fluency.  It  is  not  surprising  then  that  such  talents 
should  win  the  affections  of  a  girl,  who  by  education  was 
taught  to  value  an  appearance  in  herself,  and  consequently 
to  set  a  value  upon  it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a  debate  upon 
the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  A«  he  directed  his  looks 
and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it  was  no  longer  doubted  bu*. 
that  she  was  the  object  that  induced  him  to  be  our  visitor. 
Nor  did  she  seem  to  be  much  displeased  at  the  innocent 
raillery  of  her  brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even 
Deborah  herself  seemed  to  share  the  glory  of  the  day,  and 
exulted  in  her  daughter's  victory  as  if  it  were  her  own 
"  And  now,  my  dear,"  cried  she  to  me,  "  I'll  fairly  own, 
that  it  was  I  that  instructed  my  girls  to  encourage  our 
landlord's  addresses.  I  had  always  some  ambition,  and 
you  now  see  that  I  was  right ;  for  who  know?  how  this  may 


A   TOWN  WIT  DESCRIBED. 


end  ?" — "Aye,  who  knows  that  indeed!"  answered  I,  with 
a  groan:  "for  my  part  I  don't  much  like  it;  and  I  could 
have  been  better  pleased  with  one  that  was  poor  and 
honest,  than  this  fine  gentleman,  with  his  fortune  and 
infidelity;  for  depend  on't,  if  he  be  what  I  suspect  him,  no 
free-thinker  shall  ever  have  a  child  of  mine." 

"Sure,  father,"  cried  Moses,  "you  are  too  severe  in  this; 
for  Heaven  will  never  arraign  him  for  what  he  thinks,  but 
for  what  he  does.  Every  man  has  a  thousand  vicious 

• 

thoughts,  which  arise  without  his  power  to  suppress 
Thinking  freely  of  religion  may  be  involuntary  with  this 
gentleman  :  so  that  allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong, 
yet  as  he  is  purely  passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be 
blamed  for  his  errors,  than  the  governor  of  a  city  without 
walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged  to  afford  an  invading 
enemy." 

"  True,  my  son,  cried  I ;  "  but,  if  the  governor  invites 
the  enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable.  And  such  is  always 
the  case  with  those  who  embrace  error.  The  vice  does  not 
lie  in  assenting  to  the  proofs  they  see ;  but  in  being  blind 
to  many  of  the  proofs  that  offer.  So  that,  though  our 
erroneous  opinions  be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet  as  we 
have  been  wilfully  corrupt,  or  very  negligent  in  forming 
them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice,  or  contempt  for 
our  folly." 

My  wife  now  kept  up  the  conversation,  though  not  the 
argument :  she  observed,  that  several  very  prudent  men  of 
our  acquaintance  were  free-thinkers,  and  made  very  good 

husbands  ;  and  she  knew  some  sensible  girls  that  had  skill 

18 


274  'ffE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIRLD 


enough  to  make  converts  of  their  spouses:  "And  who 
knows,  my  dear,"  continued  she,  "  what  Olivia  may  be  able 
to  do.  The  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  every  subj  ect, 
and  to  my  knowledge  is  very  well  skilled  in  controversy." 

"Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have  read?" 
cried  I.  "  It  does  not  occur  to  me  that  I  ever  put  such 
books  into  her  hands :  you  certainly  over-rate  her  merit." — 
"Indeed,  papa,"  replied  Olivia,  "she  does  not:  I  have  read 
a  great  deal  of  controversy.  I  have  read  the  disputes 
between  Thwackum  and  Square ;  the  controversy  between 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage,  and  I  am  now 
employed  in  reading  the  controversy  in  Religious  Court- 
ship."— "  Very  well,"  cried  I,  "  that's  a  good  girl,  I  find  you 
are  perfectly  qualified  for  making  converts,  and  so  go  help 
your  mother  to  make  the  gooseberry-pie." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

• 

AM  AMOUR,  WHICH   PROMISES   LITTLE  GOOD    FORTUNE,  YET  MAY   BI 
PRODUCTIVE  OF  MUCH  GOOD. 

'HE  next  morning  we  were  again  visited  by  Mr. 
Burchell,  though  I  began,  for  certain  reasons,  to 
be  displeased  with  the  frequency  of  his  return ; 
but  I  could  not  refuse  him  my  company  and 
my  fireside.  It  is  true  his  labour  more  than  requited  his 
entertainment ;  for  he  wrought  amongst  us  with  vigour,  and 
either  in  the  meadow  or  at  the  hay-rick  put  himself  fore- 
most. Besides,  he  had  always  something  amusing  to  say 
that  lessened  our  toil,  and  was  at  once  so  out  of  the  way, 
and  yet  so  sensible,  that  I  loved,  laughed  at,  and  pitied 
him.  My  only  dislike  arose  from  an  attachment  he  dis- 
covered to  my  daughter:  he  would,  in  a  jesting  manner, 
call  her  his  little  mistress,  and  when  he  bought  each  of  the 
girls  a  set  of  ribands,  hers  was  the  finest.  I  know  not  how, 
but  he  every  day  seemed  to  become  more  amiable,  his  wit 
to  improve,  and  his  simplicity  to  assume  the  superior  airs 
of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sat,  or  rather  re- 

18— a 


THE  VtCAK  OP  WAKEF1ELD. 


clined,  round  a  temperate  repast,  our  cloth  spread  upon  the 
hay,  while  Mr.  Burchell  gave  cheerfulness  to  the  feast. 
To  heighten  our  satisfaction,  two  blackbirds  answered  each 
other  from  opposite  hedges,  the  familiar  red-breast  came 
and  picked  the  crumbs  from  our  hands,  and  every  sound 
seemed  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity.  "  I  never  sit  thus," 
says  Sophia,  "  but  I  think  of  the  two  lovers  so  sweetly 
described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who  were  struck  dead  in  each  other's 
arms.  There  is  something  so  pathetic  in  the  description, 
that  I  have  read  it  a  hundred  times  with  new  rapture."  — 
"In  my  opinion,"  cried  my  son,  "  the  finest  strokes  in 
that  description  are  much  below  those  in  the  'Acis  and 
Galatea'  of  Ovid.  The  Roman  poet  understands  the  use  of 
contrast  better,  and  upon  that  figure,  artfully  managed,  all 
strength  in  the  pathetic  depends."  —  "It  is  remarkable," 
cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that  both  the  poets  you  mention  have 
equally  contributed  to  introduce  a  false  taste  into  their  re- 
spective countries,  by  loading  all  their  lines  with  epithet. 
Men  of  little  genius  found  them  most  easily  imitated  in 
their  defects,  and  English  poetry,  like  that  in  the  latter  em- 
pire of  Rome,  is  nothing  at  present  but  a  combination  of 
luxuriant  images,  without  plot  or  connection  ;  a  string  of 
epithets  that  improve  the  sound,  without  carrying  on  the 
sense.  But,  perhaps,  madam,  while  I  thus  reprehend  others, 
you'll  think  it  just  that  I  should  give  them  an  opportunity 
to  retaliate,  and  indeed  I  have  made  this  remark  only  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  introducing  to  the  company  a 
ballad,  which,  whatever  be  its  other  defects,  is,  I  think,  at 
least  free  from  those  I  have  mentioned." 


AN  AMOUR. 


A  BALLAD. 

*  TURN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way, 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale, 
With  hospitable  ray. 

•*  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow ; 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  length'ning  as  I  go." 

•'  Forbear,  my  son,v  the  Hermit  crie% 
•'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

**  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still : 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 

44  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  shart 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

64  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 

To  slaughter  1  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

44  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

44  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego } 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong; 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 


*75  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1BLD. 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 
His  gentle  accents  fell  : 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 
And  follows  to  the  celL 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 
The  lonely  mansion  lay, 

A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 
And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master's  care  ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch. 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 
And  cheered  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  pressed,  and  smiled  J 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 
Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 

The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 
The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answ'ring  care  opprest : 
"And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
u  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

*  From  better  habitations  spurned, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturnod 
Or  unregarded  love 


AH  AMOUR.  *79 


44  Alas  I  the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prite  the  paltry  things, 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

M  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

••  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one's  jest : 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

**  For  shame,  fond  youth  1  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise^ 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,   "  Ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried  ; 

•*  Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 

Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

*  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  ; 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

•»  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mln% 
He  had  but  only  me. 


*8o  'THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD, 

44  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt  or  feigned  a  flame. 

**  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed. 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

•*  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

••  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

Th«  dews  of  Heaven  refined, 
Could  naught  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

*  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  : 
Their  charms  were  his,  but  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

•*  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain  ; 
And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heut^ 
I  triumphed  in  his  pain. 

**  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

**  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay  ; 
111  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

*  And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hi4 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 
Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  L" 


AN  AMOUR,  281 

u  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !"  the  Hermit  cried, 

And  clasped  her  to  his  breast  : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide,— 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  pressed 

*  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 
My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

**  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 
My  life, — my  all  that's  mine? 

**  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 
Shall  break  thine  Edwin's  too." 

While  this  ballad  was  reading,  Sophia  seemed  to  mix  an 
iir  of  tenderness  with  her  approbation.  But  our  tranquillity 
was  soon  disturbed  by  the  report  of  a  gun  just  by  us,  and 
immediately  after  a  man  was  seen  bursting  through  the 
h-  Jge,  to  take  up  the  game  he  had  killed.  This  sportsman 
was  the  Squire's  chaplain,  who  had  shot  one  of  the  black- 
birds that  so  agreeably  entertained  us.  So  loud  a  report, 
-iid  so  near,  startled  my  daughters;  and  I  could  perceive 
hat  Sophia  in  the  fright  had  thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Bur- 
hell's  arms  for  protection.  The  gentleman  came  up,  and 
tsked  pardon  for  having  disturbed  us,  affirming  that  he  was 
ignorant  of  our  being  so  near.  He  therefore  sat  down  by 
my  youngest  daughter,  and,  sportsman-like,  offered  her 
what  he  had  killed  that  morning.  She  was  going  to  refuse, 
but  a  private  look  from  her  mother  soon  induced  her  to 
.  orrect  the  mistake,  and  accept  his  present,  though  with 


THE   VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


some  reluctance.  My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered  her  pride  in 
a  whisper,  observing  that  Sophy  had  made  a  conquest  of  the 
chaplain,  as  well  as  her  sister  had  of  the  Squire.  I  sus- 
pected however,  with  more  probability,  that  her  affections 
were  placed  upon  a  different  object.  The  chaplain's  errand 
was  to  inform  us,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  provided  music 
and  refreshments,  and  intended  that  night  giving  the  young 
ladies  a  ball  by  moonlight,  on  the  grass-plot  before  our 
door.  "  Nor  can  I  deny,"  continued  he,  "  but  I  have  an 
interest  in  being  first  to  deliver  this  message,  as  I  expect 
for  my  reward  to  be  honoured  with  Miss  Sophy's  hand  as  a 
partner."  To  this  my  girl  replied,  that  she  should  have  no 
objection,  if  she  could  do  it  with  honour.  "  But  here,"  con- 
tinued she,  "is  a  gentleman,"  looking  at  Mr.  Burchell,  "who 
has  been  my  companion  in  the  task  for  the  day,  and  it  is 
fit  he  should  share  in  its  amusement."  Mr.  Burchell  re- 
turned a  compliment  for  her  intentions  ;  but  resigned  her 
up  to  the  chaplain,  adding  that  he  was  to  go  that  night  five 
miles,  being  invited  to  a  harvest  supper.  His  refusal 
appeared  to  me  a  little  extraordinary,  nor  could  I  conceive 
how  so  sensible  a  girl  as  my  youngest  could  thus  prefer  a 
man  of  broken  fortunes  to  one  whose  expectations  were 
much  greater.  But  as  men  are  most  capable  of  distinguish- 
ing merit  in  women,  so  the  ladies  often  form  the  truest 
judgments  of  us.  The  two  sexes  seem  placed  as  spies  upon 
each  other,  and  are  furnished  with  different  abilities,  adapted 
for  mutual  inspection. 


CHAPTER  IX 


TWO  LADIES  OF  GREAT  DISTINCTION   INTRODUCED.      SUPERIOR 

FINERY   EVER  SEEMS  TO  CONFER  SUPERIOR   BREEDING. 


jjR.  BURCHELL  had  scarcely  taken  leave, 
Sophia  consented  to  dance  with  the  chaplain, 
when  my  little  ones  came  running  out  to  tell  us 
that  the  Squire  was  come,  with  a  crowd  of  com- 
pany. Upon  our  return,  we  found  our  landlord,  with  a 
couple  of  under-gentlemen  and  two  young  ladies  richly 
dressed,  whom  he  introduced  as  women  of  very  great  dis- 
tinction and  fashion  from  town.  We  happened  not  to  have 
chairs  enough  for  the  whole  company  ;  but  Mr.  Thornhill 
immediately  proposed  that  every  gentleman  should  sit  in 
a  lady's  lap.  This  I  positively  objected  to,  notwithstanding 
a  looic  of  disapprobation  from  my  wife.  Moses  was  there- 
fore despatched  to  borrow  a  couple  of  chairs  ;  and  as  we 
were  in  want  of  ladies  to  make  up  a  set  at  country  dances: 
the  two  gentlemen  went  with  him  in  quest  of  a  couple  of 
partners.  Chairs  and  partners  were  soon  provided.  The 
gentlemen  returned  with  my  neighbour  Flamborough's 
rosy  daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots;  but  an 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


unlucky  circumstance  was  not  adverted  to  ;  though  the 
Miss  Flamboroughs  were  reckoned  the  very  best  dancers  in 
the  parish,  and  understood  the  jig  and  the  round-about  to 
perfection,  yet  they  were  totally  unacquainted  with  country- 
dances.  This  at  first  discomposed  us  ;  however, ,  after  a 
little  shoving  and  dragging,  they  at  last  went  merrily  on. 
Our  music  consisted  of  two  fiddles,  with  a  pipe  and  tabor. 
The  moon  shone  bright;  Mr.  Thornhill  and  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter led  up  the  ball,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  spectators  ; 
for  the  neighbours,  hearing  what  was  going  forward,  came 
flocking  about  us.  My  girl  moved  with  so  much  grace  and 
vivacity,  that  my  wife  could  not  avoid  discovering  the  pride 
of  her  heart  by  assuring  me,  that  though  the  little  chit  did 
it  so  cleverly,  all  the  steps  were  stolen  from  herself.  The 
ladies  of  the  town  strove  hard  to  be  equally  easy,  but  without 
success.  They  swam,  sprawled,  languished,  and  frisked  ; 
but  all  would  not  do  ;  the  gazers  indeed  owned  that  it  was 
fine;  but  neighbour  Flamborough  observed,  that  Miss  Livy's 
feet  seemed  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo.  After  the 
dance  had  continued  about  an  hour,  the  two  ladies,  who 
were  apprehensive  of  catching  cold,  moved  to  break  up  the 
ball.  One  of  them,  I  thought,  expressed  her  sentiments 
upon  this  occasion  in  a  very  coarse  manner,  when  she  ob- 
served that  by  the  living  jingo  she  was  all  of  a  muck  of 
sweat.  Upon  our  return  to  the  house,  we  found  a  very 
elegant  cold  supper,  which  Mr.  Thornhill  had  ordered 
to  be  brought  with  him.  The  conversation  at  this  time 
was  more  reserved  than  before.  The  two  ladies  threw 
ray  girls  quite  in  the  shade;  for  they  would  talk  ol 


LADIES  OF  DISTINCTION  INTRODUCED.  aS$ 

nothing  but  high  life,  and  high-lived  company  ;  with  othei 
fashionable  topics,  such  as  pictures,  taste,  Shakespear,  and 
the  musical  glasses.  'Tis  true  they  once  or  twice  mortified 
us  sensibly  by  slipping  out  an  oath  ;  but  that  appeared  to 
me  as  the  surest  symptom  of  their  distinction  (though  I  am 
since  informed  that  swearing  is  perfectly  unfashionable). 
Their  finery,  however,  threw  a  veil  over  any  grossness  in 
their  conversation.  My  daughters  seemed  to  regard  their 
superior  accomplishments  with  envy;  and  whatever  appeared 
amiss  was  ascribed  to  tip-top  quality  breeding.  But  the 
condescension  of  the  ladies  was  still  superior  to  their  other 
accomplishments.  One  of  them  observed,  that  had  Miss 
Olivia  seen  a  little  more  of  the  world,  it  would  greatly 
improve  her.  To  which  the  other  added,  that  a  single 
winter  in  town  would  make  her  little  Sophia  quite  another 
thing.  My  wife  warmly  assented  to  both ;  adding,  that 
there  was  nothing  she  more  ardently  wished  than  to  give 
her  girls  a  single  winter's  polishing.  To  this  I  could  not 
help  replying,  that  their  breeding  was  already  superior  to 
their  fortune ;  and  that  greater  refinement  would  only 
serve  to  make  their  poverty  ridiculous,  and  give  them  a 
taste  for  pleasures  they  had  no  right  to  possess. — "And 
what  pleasures,"  cried  Mr.  Thornhill,  "do  they  not  deserve 
to  possess,  who  have  so  much  in  their  power  to  bestow  ? 
As  for  my  part,"  continued  he,  "  my  fortune  is  pretty  large  \ 
love,  liberty,  and  pleasure,  are  my  maxims ;  but,  curse  me, 
if  a  settlement  of  half  my  estate  could  'give  my  charming 
Olivia  pleasure,  it  should  be  hers  ;  and  the  only  favour  I 
would  ask  in  return  would  be  to  add  myself  to  the  benefit." 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEPIELD. 


I  was  not  such  a  stranger  to  the  world  as  to  be  ignorant 
that  this  was  the  fashionable  cant  to  disguise  the  insolence 
of  the  basest  proposal  ;  but  I  made  an  effort  to  suppress  my 
resentment.  "Sir,"  cried  I,  "the  family  which  you  now 
condescend  to  favour  with  your  company  has  been  bred  with 
as  nice  a  sense  of  honour  as  you.  Any  attempt  to  injure 
that  may  be  attended  with  very  dangerous  consequences. 
Honour,  sir,  is  our  only  possession  at  present,  and  of  that 
last  treasure  we  must  be  particularly  careful."  —  I  was  soon 
sorry  for  the  warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken  this,  when 
the  young  gentleman,  grasping  my  hand,  swore  he  com- 
mended my  spirit,  though  he  disapproved  my  suspicions. 
"  As  to  your  present  hint,"  continued  he,  "  I  protest  nothing 
was  farther  from  my  heart  than  such  a  thought.  No,  by 
all  that's  tempting,  the  virtue  that  will  stand  a  regular 
siege  was  never  to  my  taste  ;  for  all  my  amours  are  carried 
by  a  coup  de  main." 

The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of  the  rest, 
seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last  stroke  of  freedom, 
and  began  a  very  discreet  and  serious  dialogue  upon  virtue  . 
in  this  my  wife,  the  chaplain,  and  I,  soon  joined  ;  and  the 
Squire  himself  was  at  last  brought  to  confess  a  sense  of 
sorrow  for  his  former  excesses.  We  talked  of  the  pleasures 
of  temperance,  and  of  the  sunshine  in  the  mind  unpolluted 
with  guilt.  I  was  so  well  pleased,  that  my  little  ones  were 
kept  up  beyond  the  usual  time  to  be  edified  by  so  much 
good  conversation.  Mr.  Thornhill  even  went  beyond  me, 
and  demanded  if  I  had  any  objection  to  giving  prayers 
1  joyfully  embraced  the  proposal,  and  in  this  manner  the 


LADIES  OF  DISTINCTION  INTRODUCED.  ty 

night  was  passed  in  a  most  comfortable  way,  till  at  length 
the  company  began  to  think  of  returning.  The  ladies  seemed 
very  unwilling  to  part  with  my  daughters  ;  for  whom  they 
had  conceived  a  particular  affection,  and  joined  in  a  request 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  their  company  home.  The  Squire 
seconded  the  proposal,  and  my  wife  added  her  entreaties ; 
the  girls  too  looked  upon  me  as  if  they  wished  to  go.  In 
this  perplexity  I  made  two  or  three  excuses,  which  my 
daughters  as  readily  removed ;  so  that  at  last  I  was  obliged 
to  give  a  peremptory  refusal  ;  for  which  we  had  nothing  but 
sullen  looks  and  short  answers  the  whole  day  ensuing. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  FAMILY  ENDEAVOUR  TO  COPE  WITH  THEIR  BETTERS.  THE 
MISERIES  OF  THE  POOR  WHEN  THEY  ATTEMPT  TO  APPEAR 
ABOVE  THEIR  CIRCUMSTANCES. 

NOW  began  to  find  that  all  my  long  and  painful 
lectures  upon  temperance,  simplicity,  and  con- 
tentment, were  entirely  disregarded.  The  dis- 
tinctions lately  paid  us  by  our  betters  awakened 
that  pride  which  I  had  laid  asleep,  but  not  removed.  Our 
windows  again,  as  formerly,  were  filled  with  washes  for  the 
neck  and  face.  The  sun  was  dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the 
skin  without  doors,  and  the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion 
within.  My  wife  observed,  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt 
her  daughter's  eyes,  that  working  after  dinner  would  redden 
their  noses,  and  she  convinced  me  that  the  hands  never 
looked  so  white  as  when  they  did  nothing.  Instead  there- 
fore of  finishing  George's  shirts,  we  now  had  them  new 
modelling  their  old  gauzes,  or  flourishing  upon  catgut.  The 
poor  Miss  Flamboroughs,  their  former  gay  companions, 
were  cast  off  as  mean  acquaintance,  and  the  whole  conver- 


TffE  FAMILY  AND  THEIR  BETTERS.  289 

sation  ran  upon  high  life  and  high-lived  company,  with 
'ctures,  taste,  Shakespear,  and  the  musical  glasses. 

But  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a  fortune- 
telling  gipsy  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect  sublimity.  The 
tawny  sibyl  no  sooner  appeared,  than  my  girls  came  running 
to  me  for  a  shilling  apiece  to  cross  her  hand  with  silver. 
To  say  the  truth,  I  was  tired  of  being  always  wise,  and 
could  not  help  gratifying  their  request,  because  I  loved  to 
see  them  happy.  I  gave  each  of  them  a  shilling ;  though, 
for  the  honour  of  the  family,  it  must  be  observed,  that  they 
never  went  without  money  themselves,  as  my  wife  always 
generously  let  them  have  a  guinea  each,  to  keep  in  their 
pockets ;  but  with  strict  injunctions  never  to  change  it. 
After  they  had  been  closeted  up  with  the  fortune-teller  for 
some  time,  I  knew  by  their  looks,  upon  their  returning,  that 
they  had  been  promised  something  great. — "Well,  my  girls, 
how  have  you  sped  ?  Tell  me,  Livy,  has  the  fortune-teller 
given  thee  a  penny-worth?" — "I  protest,  papa,"  says  the 
girl,  "  I  believe  she  deals  with  somebody  that's  not  right ; 
for  she  positively  declared,  that  I  am  to  be  married  to  a 
squire  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth!" — "Well,  now,  Sophy 
my  child,"  said  I,  "  and  what  sort  of  a  husband  are  you  to 
have  ?" — "  Sir,"  replied  she,  "  I  am  to  have  a  lord  soon  after 
my  sister  has  married  the  squire." — "How,"  cried  I,  "is 
that  all  you  are  to  have  for  your  two  shillings )  Only  a 
lord  and  a  squire  for  two  shillings  !  You  fools,  I  could 
have  promised  you  a  prince  and  a  nabob  for  half  the 
money." 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended  with  very 
'9 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAA'EFIKLD. 


serious  effects  :  we  now  began  to  think  ourselves  designed 
by  the  stars  to  something  exalted,  and  already  anticipated 
our  future  grandeur. 

It  has  been  a  thousand  times  observed,  and  I  must 
observe  it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass  with  happy 
prospects  in  view  arc  more  pleasing  than  those  crowned 
with  fruition.  In  the  first  case  we  cook  the  dish  to  our  own 
appetite  ;  in  the  latter,  nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  repeat  the  train  of  agreeable  reveries  we  called  up 
for  our  entertainment  We  looked  upon  our  fortunes  as 
once  more  rising  ;  and  as  the  whole  parish  asserted  that  the 
squire  was  in  love  with  my  daughter,  she  was  actually  so 
with  him  ;  for  they  persuaded  her  into  the  passion.  In 
this  agreeable  interval,  my  wife  had  the  most  lucky  dream 
in  the  world,  which  she  took  care  to  tell  us  every  morning, 
with  great  solemnity  and  exactness.  It  was  one  night  a 
coffin  and  cross-bones,  the  sign  of  an  approaching  wedding  : 
at  another  time  she  imagined  her  daughters'  pockets  rilled 
with  farthings,  a  certain  sign  they  would  shortly  be  stu  fifed 
with  gold.  The  girls  themselves  had  their  omens.  They 
felt  strange  kisses  on  their  lips  ;  they  saw  rings  in  the 
candle,  purses  bounced  from  the  fire,  and  true-love  knots 
lurked  in  the  bottom  of  every  tea-cup. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card  from 
the  town  ladies  ;  in  which,  with  their  compliments,  they 
hoped  to  see  all  our  family  at  church  the  Sunday  following. 
All  Saturday  morning  I  could  perceive,  in  consequence  of 
this,  my  wife  and  daughters  in  close  conference  together, 
and  now  and  then  glancing  at  me  with  looks  that  betrayed 


THE  FAMILY  AND  THEIR  BETTERS.  291 

a  latent  plot  To  be  sincere,  I  had  strong  suspicions  that 
some  absurd  proposal  was  preparing  for  appearing  with 
splendour  the  next  day.  In  the  evening  they  began  theii 
operations  in  a  very  regular  manner,  and  my  wife  undertook 
to  conduct  the  siege.  After  tea,  when  I  seemed  in  spirits, 
she  began  thus — "  I  fancy,  Charles,  my  dear,  we  shall  have 
a  great  deal  of  good  company  at  our  church  to-morrow." — 
"  Perhaps  we  may,  my  dear,"  returned  I ;  "  though  you 
need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about  that,  you  shall  have  a 
sermon  whether  there  be  or  not." — "  That  is  what  I  ex- 
pect," returned  she  :  "but  I  think,  my  dear,  we  ought  to 
appear  there  as  decently  as  possible,  for  who  knows  what 
may  happen  ?" — "  Your  precautions,"  replied  I,  "  are  highly 
commendable.  A  decent  behaviour  and  appearance  in 
church  is  what  charms  me.  We  should  be  devout  and 
humble,  cheerful  and  serene." — "Yes,"  cried  she,  "  I  know 
that ;  but  I  mean  we  should  go  there  in  as  proper  a  manner 
as  possible;  not  altogether  like  the  scrubs  about  us." — 
"  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear,"  returned  I,  "  and  I  wa.s 
going  to  make  the  very  same  proposal.  The  proper  manner 
of  going  is,  to  go  there  as  early  as  possible,  to  have  time 
for  meditation  before  the  service  begins." — "  Pooh,  Charles," 
interrupted  she,  "all  that  is  very  true:  but  not  what  1 
would  be  at.  I  mean  we  should  go  there  genteelly.  You 
know  the  church  is  two  miles  off,  and  I  protest  I  don't  like 
to  see  my  daughters  trudging  up  to  their  pew  all  blowzed 
and  red  with  walking,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  as  if 
they  had  been  winners  at  a  smock  -race.  Now,  my  dear,  my 
proposal  is  this  :  there  are  our  two  plough-horses,  the  colt 

19 2 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


that  has  been  in  our  family  these  nine  years,  and  his  com- 
panion, Blackberry,  that  has  scarcely  done  an  earthly  thing 
for  this  month  past.  They  are  both  grown  fat  and  lazy. 
Why  should  they  not  do  something  as  well  as  we  ?  And 
let  me  tell  you,  when  Moses  has  trimmed  them  a  little,  they 
will  cut  a  very  tolerable  figure." 

To  this  proposal  I  objected,  that  walking  would  be  twenty 
times  more  genteel  than  such  a  paltry  conveyance,  as 
Blackberry  was  wall-eyed,  and  the  coat  wanted  a  tail  :  that 
they  had  never  been  broken  to  the  rein  ;  but  had  a  hundred 
vicious  tricks  ;  and  that  we  had  but  one  saddle  and  pillion 
in  the  whole  house.  All  these  objections,  however,  were 
overruled  :  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  comply.  The  next 
morning  I  perceived  them  not  a  little  busy  in  collecting 
such  materials  as  might  be  necessary  for  the  expedition ; 
but  as  I  found  it  would  be  a  business  of  time,  I  walked  on 
to  the  church  before,  and  they  promised  speedily  to  follow. 
I  waited  near  an  hour  in  the  reading-desk  for  their  arrival ; 
but  not  finding  them  come  as  expected,  I  was  obliged  to 
begin,  and  went  through  the  service  not  without  some 
uneasiness  at  finding  them  absent.  This  was  increased 
when  all  was  f  nished,  and  no  appearance  of  the  family.  1 
therefore  walked  back  by  the  horse-way,  which  was  five 
miles  round,  though  the  footway  was  but  two,  and  when  I 
got  about  half  way  home  perceived  the  procession  marching 
slowly  forward  towards  the  church ;  my  son,  my  wife  and 
the  two  little  ones  exalted  upon  one  horse,  and  my  two 
daughters  on  the  other.  I  demanded  the  cause  of  their 
•;  but  I  soon  found  by  their  looks  they  had  met  with 


THE  FAMILY  AKD  THEIR  BETTERS, 


a  thousand  misfortunes  on  the  road.  The  horses  had  at 
first  refused  to  move  from  the  door,  till  Mr.  Burchell  was 
kind  enough  to  beat  them  forward  for  about  two  hundred 
yards  with  his  cudgel.  Next,  the  straps  of  my  wife's  pillion 
broke  down,  and  they  were  obliged  to  stop  to  repair  them 
before  they  could  proceed.  After  that  one  of  the  horses 
took  it  into  his  head  to  stand  still,  and  neither  blows  nor 
entreaties  could  prevail  with  him  to  proceed.  He  was  just 
recovering  from  this  dismal  situation  when  I  found  them  ; 
but  perceiving  everything  safe,  I  own  their  present  mortifi- 
cation did  not  much  displease  me,  as  it  would  give  me 
many  opportunities  of  future  triumph,  and  teach  my 
daughters  more  humility, 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  FAMILY  STILL  RESOLVB  TO  HOLD  UP  THEIR  HEADS. 

ICHAELMAS  Eve  happening  on  the  next  day 
we  were  invited  to  burn  nuts  and  play  tricks  at 
neighbour  Flamborough's.  Our  late  mortifica- 
tions had  humbled  us  a  little,  or  it  Js  probable 
we  might  have  rejected  such  an  invitation  with  contempt : 
however,  we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  happy.  Our  honest 
neighbour's  goose  and  dumplings  were  fine,  and  the  lamb's 
wool,  even  in  the  opinion  of  my  wife,  who  was  a  connoisseur, 
was  excellent.  It  is  true,  his  manner  of  telling  stories  was 
not  quite  so  well.  They  were  very  long,  and  very  dull,  and 
all  about  himself,  and  we  had  laughed  at  them  ten  times 
before :  however,  we  were  kind  enough  to  laugh  at  then? 
mce  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  one  of  the  party,  was  always  fond 
>>f  seeing  some  innocent  amusement  going  forward,  and  set 
the  boys  and  girls  to  blind  man's  buff.  My  wife  too  was 
persuaded  to  join  in  the  diversion,  and  it  gave  me  pleasure 
to  think  she  was  not  yet  too  old.  In  the  mean  time,  my 
neighbour  and  I  looked  on,  laughed  at  every  feat,  and 


Tff£  FAMILV  STILL  ffOLf)  UP  THEtR  HEADS.         295 

praised  our  own  dexterity  when  we  were  young.  Hoi 
cockles  succeeded  next,  questions  and  commands  followed 
that,  and  last  of  all,  they  sat  down  to  hunt  the  slipper. 
As  every  person  may  not  be  acquainted  with  this  primeval 
pastime,  it  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  company 
in  this  play  plant  themselves  in  a  ring  upon  the  ground,  all 
except  one,  who  stands  in  the  middle,  whose  business  it  is 
to  catch  a  shoe,  which  the  company  shove  about  under  their 
hams  from  one  to  another,  something  like  a  weaver's  shuttle. 
As  it  is  impossible,  in  this  case,  for  the  lady  who  is  up  to 
face  all  the  company  at  once,  the  great  beauty  of  the  play 
lies  in  hitting  her  a  thump  with  the  heel  of  the  shoe  on 
that  side  least  capable  of  making  defence.  It  was  in  this 
manner  that  my  eldest  daughter  was  hemmed  in,  and 
thumped  about,  all  blowzed,  in  spirits,  and  bawling  for  fair 
play,  with  a  voice  that  might  deafen  a  ballad-singer, 
when,  confusion  on  confusion,  who  should  enter  the 
room  but  our  two  great  acquaintances  from  town,  Lady 
Blarney  and  Miss  Carolina  Wilelmina  Amelia  Skeggs ! 
Description  would  but  beggar,  therefore  it  is  unnecessary 
to  describe  this  new  mortification.  Death  !  To  be  seen 
by  ladies  of  such  high  breeding  in  such  vulgar  attitudes ! 
Nothing  better  could  ensue  from  such  a  vulgar  play  of  Mr. 
Flamborough's  proposing.  We  seemed  struck  to  the  ground 
for  some  time,  as  if  actually  petrified  with  amazement. 

The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us,  and  find- 
ing us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as  they  were  uneasy 
to  know  what  accident  could  have  kept  us  from  church  the 
day  before.  Olivia  undertook  to  be  our  prolocutor,  and 


£96  THE  VICAR  Of 


delivered  the  whole  in  a  summary  way,  only  saying,  "  We 
were  thrown  from  our  horses."  At  which  account  the 
ladies  were  greatly  concerned  ;  but  being  told  the  family 
received  no  hurt,  they  were  extremely  glad  ;  but  being 
informed  that  we  were  almost  killed  by  the  fright,  they 
were  vastly  sorry  ;  but  hearing  that  we  had  a  very  good 
night,  they  were  extremely  glad  again.  Nothing  could 
exceed  their  complaisance  to  my  daughters  ;  their  profes- 
sions the  last  evening  were  warm,  but  now  they  were 
ardent.  They  protested  a  desire  of  a  more  lasting  acquaint- 
ance. Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  attached  to  Olivia  ; 
Miss  Carolina  Wilelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  (I  love  to  give 
the  whole  name)  took  a  greater  fancy  to  her  sister.  They 
supported  the  conversation  between  themselves,  while  my 
daughters  sat  silent,  admiring  their  exalted  breeding. 
But  as  every  reader,  however  beggarly  himself,  is  fond  of 
high-lived  dialogues,  with  anecdotes  of  lords,  ladies,  and 
knights  of  the  garter,  I  must  beg  leave  to  give  him  the 
concluding  part  of  the  conversation 

"  All  that  I  know  of  the  matter,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "  is 
this,  that  it  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not  be  true  :  but  this  I 
can  assure  your  ladyship,  that  the  whole  rout  was  in 
amaze  ;  his  lordship  turned  all  manner  of  colours,  my  lady 
fell  into  a  swoon,  but  Sir  Tomkyn,  drawing  his  sword,  swore 
he  was  hers  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood." 

"  Well,"  replied  our  peeress,  "  this  I  can  say,  that  the 
duchess  never  told  me  a  syllable  of  the  matter,  and  I 
believe  her  Grace  would  keep  nothing  a  secret  from  me. 
This  you  may  depend  upon  as  a  fact,  that  the  next  morning 


THE  PAMILY  STILL  HOLD  UP  THEIR  HEADS.         29} 

my  lord  duke  cried  out  three  times  to  his  valet  de  chambre, 
'Jernigan,  Jernigan,  Jernigan,  bring  me  my  garters.'" 

But  previously  I  should  have  mentioned  the  very  impolite 
behaviour  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  during  this  discourse,  sat 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  fire,  and  at  the  conclusion  of 
every  sentence  would  cry  out,  "  Fudge !"  an  expression 
which  displeased  us  all,  and  in  some  measure  damped  the 
rising  spirit  of  the  conversation. 

"  Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,"  continued  our  peeress, 
"there  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of  verses  that  Dr. 
Burdock  made  upon  the  occasion."  "  Fudge !" 

"I  am  surprised  at  that,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs;  "for  he 
seldom  leaves  any  thing  out,  as  he  writes  only  for  his  own 
amusement.  But  can  your  ladyship  favour  me  with  a  sight 
of  them  ?"  "  Fudge !" 

"  My  dear  creature,"  replied  our  peeress,  "  do  you  think 
I  carry  such  things  about  me  ?  Though  they  are  very  fine 
to  be  sure,  and  I  think  myself  something  of  a  judge  ;  at 
least  I  know  what  pleases  myself.  Indeed  I  was  ever  an 
admirer  of  all  Dr.  Burdock's  little  pieces ;  for  except 
what  he  does,  and  our  dear  countess  at  Hanover-square, 
there's  nothing  comes  out  but  the  most  lowest  stuff  in 
nature  ;  not  a  bit  of  high  life  among  them."  "  Fudge  !" 

"  Your  ladyship  should  except,"  says  the  other,  "your  own 
things  in  the  Lady's  Magazine.  I  hope  you'll  say  there's 
nothing  low-lived  there  ?  But  I  suppose  we  are  to  have  no 
more  from  that  quarter  ?"  "  Fudge  !" 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  says  the  lady,  "  you  know  my  readei 
and  companion  has  left  me,  to  be  married  to  Captair 


293  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Roach,  and  as  my  poor  eyes  won't  suffer  me  to  write  myself 
I  have  been  for  some  time  looking  out  for  another.  A 
proper  person  is  no  easy  matter  to  find,  and  to  be  sure 
thirty  pounds  a  year  is  a  small  stipend  for  a  well-bred  girl 
of  character,  that  can  read,  write,  and  behave  in  company  ; 
as  for  the  chits  about  town,  there  is  no  bearing  them  about 
one."  "  Fudge ! " 

"That  I  know,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "by  experience 
For  of  the  three  companions  I  had  this  last  half  year,  one 
of  them  refused  to  do  plain  work  an  hour  in  the  day, 
another  thought  twenty-five  guineas  a  year  too  small  a 
salary,  and  I  was  obliged  to  send  away  the  third,  because  I 
suspected  an  intrigue  with  the  chaplain.  Virtue,  my  de&r 
Lady  Blarney,  virtue  is  worth  any  price  ;  but  where  is  that 
to  be  found  ?"  "  Fudge !" 

My  wife  had  been  for  a  long  time  all  attention  to  this 
discourse  ;  but  was  particularly  struck  with  the  latter  part 
of  it  Thirty  pounds  and  twenty-five  guineas  a  year  made 
fifty-six  pounds  five  shillings  English  money,  all  which  was 
in  a  manner  going  a-begging,  and  might  easily  be  secured 
in  the  family.  She  for  a  moment  studied  my  looks  for 
approbation  ;  and,  to  own  a  truth,  I  was  of  opinion  that 
two  such  places  would  fit  our  two  daughters  exactly.  Be- 
sides, if  the  squire  had  any  real  affection  for  my  eldest 
daughter,  this  would  be  the  way  to  make  her  every  way 
qualified  for  her  fortune.  My  wife  therefore  was  resolved 
that  we  should  not  be  deprived  of  such  advantages  for 
want  of  assurance,  and  undertook  to  harangue  for  the 
family.  "  I  hope,"  cried  she,  "  your  ladyships  will  pardon 
my  present  presumption.  It  is  true  we  have  no  right  to 


THE  FAMILY  STILL  HOLD  UP  THEIR  HEADS.          299 

pretend  to  such  favours  ;  but  yet  it  is  natural  for  me  to 
wish  putting  my  children  forward  in  the  world.  And  I  will 
be  bold  to  say  my  two  girls  have  had  a  pretty  good  educa- 
tion and  capacity,  at  least,  the  country  can't  show  better. 
They  read,  write,  and  cast  accounts ;  they  understand 
their  needle,  broad-stitch,  cross  and  change,  and  all  manner 
of  plain-work  ;  they  can  pink,  point,  and  frill  ;  and  know 
something  of  music  ;  they  can  do  up  small  clothes,  and  work 
upon  catgut ;  my  eldest  can  cut  paper,  and  my  youngest 
has  a  very  pretty  manner  of  telling  fortunes  upon  the 
cards."  ''Fudge!" 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence, 
the  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a  few  minutes  in  silence, 
with  an  air  of  doubt  and  importance.  At  last,  Miss  Carolina 
Wilelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  condescended  to  observe,  that 
the  young  ladies,  from  the  opinion  she  could  form  of  them 
from  so  slight  an  acquaintance,  seemed  very  fit  for  such 
employments  ;  "but  a  thing  of  this  kind,  madam,"  cried  she, 
addressing  my  spouse,  "requires  a  thorough  examination 
into  characters,  and  a  more  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other. 
Not,  madam,"  continued  she,  "  that  I  in  the  least  suspect  the 
young  ladies'  virtue,  prudence,  and  discretion  :  but  there  is 
a  form  in  these  things,  madam,  there  is  a  form."  "  Fudge." 

My  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much,  observing, 
that  she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious  herself ;  but  referred 
her  to  all  the  neighbours  for  a  character  :  but  this  our 
peeress  declined  as  unnecessary,  alleging  that  her  cousin 
Thornhill's  recommendation  would  be  sufficient,  and  upon 
this  we  rested  our  petition. 


CHAPTER   XII. 


KORTUNS  SEEMS  RESOLVED  TO  HUMBLE  THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKE 
FIELD.  MORTIFICATIONS  ARE  OFTEN  MORE  PAINFUL  THAN  REAl 
CALAMITIES. 

• 

| HEN  we  returned  home,  the  night  was  dedi- 
cated to  schemes  of  future  conquest  Deborah 
exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjecturing  which  of 
the  two  girls  was  likely  to  have  the  best  place, 
and  most  opportunities  of  seeing  good  company.  The 
only  obstacle  to  our  preferment  was  in  obtaining  the 
^quire's  recommendation  ;  but  he  had  already  shown  us  too 
many  instances  of  his  friendship  to  doubt  of  it  now.  Even 
in  bed  my  wife  kept  up  the  usual  theme  :  "  Well,  faith,  my 
dear  Charles,  between  ourselves,  I  think  we  have  made  an 
excellent  day's  work  of  it." — "  Pretty  well,"  cried  I,  not 
knowing  what  to  say. — "  What,  only  pretty  well  ?"  returned 
he.  "  I  think  it  is  very  well.  Suppose  the  girls  should 
oome  to  make  acquaintances  of  taste  in  town.  This  I  am 
issured  of,  that  London  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for 
,ill  manner  of  husbands.  Besides,  my  dear,  stranger  things 
happen  every  day  :  and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so  vaken 
with  my  daughters,  what  will  not  men  of  quality  be  !  Entrt 


FORTUNE  HUMBLES  THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD.    301 

nous,   I  protest  I  like  my  Lady  Blarney  vastly,   so  very 
obliging.       However,    Miss    Carolina    Wilelmina    Amelia 
Skeggs  has  my  warm  heart.     But  yet,  when  they  came  to 
talk  of  places  in  town,  you  saw  at  once  how  I  nailed  them. 
Tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you  think  I  did  for  my  children 
there  ?"— "  Ay,"    returned    I,   not   knowing   well   what   to 
think  of  the  matter,  "heaven  grant  they  may  be  both  the 
better  for   it   this   day  three  months !"     This  was  one  of 
those    observations    I    made    to    impress   my   wife   with 
an  opinion  of  my  sagacity ;    for   if   the   girls    succeeded, 
then   it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled  ;   but   if  anything  un- 
fortunate  ensued,   then   it   might    be   looked   upon   as   a 
prophecy.     All  this  conversation,  however,  was  only  pre- 
paratory to  another  scheme,  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as  much. 
This  was  nothing  less  than  that,  as  we  were  now  to  hold  up 
our  heads  a  little  higher  in  the  world,  it  would  be  proper  to 
sell  the  colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a  neighbouring  fair, 
and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would  carry  single  or  double  upon 
an  occasion,  and  make  a  pretty  appearance  at  church  or 
upon  a  visit.     This  at  first  I  opposed  stoutly  ;  but  it  was  as 
stoutly   defended.      However,   as   I    weakened,    my  anta- 
gonist gained  strength,  till  at  last  it  was  resolved  to  part 
with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had  inten- 
tions of  going  myself;  but  my  wife  persuaded  me  that  I 
had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail  upon  her  to  per- 
mit me  from  home.  "No,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "our  son 
Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and  can  buy  and  sell  to  very  good 
idvantage;  you  know  ail  our  great  bargains  are  of  his 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


purchasing.  He  always  stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually 
tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain." 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I  was 
villing  enough  to  entrust  him  with  this  commission ;  and 
the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sisters  mighty  busy  in 
fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair ;  trimming  his  hair,  brushing 
his  buckles,  and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The  business 
of  the  toilet  being  over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  him  mounted  upon  the  colt,  with  a  deal  box  before 
him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He  had  on  a  coat  made 
of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and  lightning,  which,  though 
;rown  too  short,  was  much  too  good  to  be  thrown  away. 
His  waistcoat  was  of  a  gosling  green,  and  his  sisters  had  tied 
his  hair  with  a  broad  black  riband.  We  all  followed  him 
^everal  paces  from  the  door,  bawling  after  him  "  Good  luck ! 
;ood  luck !"  till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone,  when  Mr.  Thornhill's  butler  came  to 
congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune,  saying,  that  he 
overheard  his  young  master  mention  our  names  with  great 
commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone.  Another 
footman  from  the  same  family  followed,  with  a  card  for  my 
laughters,  importing  that  the  two  ladies  had  received  such 
r.leasing  accounts  from  Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all,  that,  after  a 
tw  previous  inquiries,  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied. 

"  Ay,"  cried  my  wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to 
;et  into  the  families  of  the  great ;  but  when  one  once  gets  in, 
.hen.  as  Moses  says,  one  may  go  to  sleep."  To  this  piece 
of  humour,  for  she  intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters 


FORTUNE  HUMBLES  THE  PAM1L  Y  OF  WAKEFIELD.      3°3 

assented  with  a  loud  laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was 
her  satisfaction  at  this  message,  that  she  actually  put  her  hano 
in  her  pocket,  and  gave  the  messenger  sevenpence  halfpenny 
This  was  to  be  our  visiting-day.  The  next  that  cani' 
was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair.  He  brougl  ••'. 
my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  gingerbread  each,  which  m 
wife  undertook  to  keep  for  them,  and  give  them  by  little 
at  a  time.  He  brought  my  daughters  also  a  couple  or 
boxes,  in  which  they  might  keep  wafers,  snuff,  patches,  01  . 
even  money,  when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usually  fond 
of  a  weazel  skin  purse,  as  being  the  most  lucky ;  but  this 
by  the  bye.  We  had  still  a  regard  for  Mr.  Burchell,  though 
his  late  rude  behaviour  was  in  some  measure  displeasing ; 
nor.  could  we  now  avoid  communicating  our  happiness  to 
him,  and  asking  his  advice;  although  we  seldom  followed 
;idvice,  we  were  all  ready  enough  to  ask  it.  When  he  read 
the  note  from  the  two  ladies,  he  shook  his  head,  and 
observed,  that  an  affair  of  this  sort  demanded  the  utmost 
circumspection.  This  air  of  diffidence  highly  displeased 
my  wife.  "  I  never  doubted,  sir,"  cried  she,  "  your  readi- 
ness to  be  against  my  daughters  and  me.  You  have  more 
circumspection  than  is  wanted.  However,  I  fancy  when  we 
come  to  ask  advice,  we  shall  apply  to  persons  who  seem  to 
have  made  use  of  it  themselves." — "  Whatever  my  own 
conduct  may  have  been,  madam,"  replied  he,  "  is  not  the 
present  question ;  though  as  I  have  made  no  use  of  advice 
myself,  I  should  in  conscience  give  it  to  those  that  will." — 
As  I  was  apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on  a  re- 
partee, making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in  wit,  I 


804  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

changed  the  subject,  by  seeming  to  wonder  what  could 
keep  our  son  so  long  at  the  fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  night- 
fall.— "  Never  mind  our  son,"  cried  my  wife  ;  "  depend  upon 
it,  he  knows  what  he  is  about.  I'll  warrant  we'll  never  see 
him  sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen  him  buy  such 
bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell  you  a  good  story 
about  that,  that  will  make  you  split  your  sides  with  laugh- 
ing.— But  as  I  live,  yonder  conies  Moses,  without  a  horse, 
and  the  box  at  his  back." 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and  sweating 
under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapped  round  his 
shoulders  like  a  pedlar.  "  Welcome,  welcome,  Moses  ;  well, 
my  boy,  what  have  you  brought  us  from  the  fair?" — "1 
have  brought  you  myself,"  cried  Moses,  with  a  sly  look,  and 
resting  the  box  on  the  dresser. — "Ay,  Moses,"  cried  my 
wife,  "  that  we  know,  but  where  is  the  horse  ? " — "  I  have 
sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "  for  three  pounds  five  shillings  and 
two-pence." — "  Well  done,  my  good  boy,"  returned  she,  "  1 
knew  you  would  touch  them  off.  Between  ourselves,  thret 
pounds  five  shillings  and  two-pence  is  no  bad  day's  work 
Come,  let  us  have  it  then." — "I  have  brought  back  nc 
money,"  cried  Moses  again,  "I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a 
bargain,  and  here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from  hi? 
breast :  "  here  they  are :  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with 
silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases." — "  A  gross  of  green  spec- 
tacles ! "  repeated  my  wife,  in  a  faint  voice.  "  And  you  have 
parted  with  the  colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a 
gross  of  green  paltry  spectacles ! " — "  Dear  mother,"  cried 
the  boy,  "  why  won't  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a 


FORTUNE  HUMBLES  THL  PAMILY  OF  WAKEflELb.        $oj 

dead  bargain,  or  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The 
silver  rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the  money." — "A  fig 
for  the  silver  rims!"  cried  my  wife  in  a  passion:  "I  dare 
swear  they  won't  sell  for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate 
of  broken  silver,  five  shillings  an  ounce." — "You  need  be 
under  no  uneasiness,"  cried  I,  "about  selling  the  rims:  for 
they  are  not  worth  sixpence,  for  I  perceive  they  are  only 
copper  varnished  over."  —  "What,"  cried  my  wife,  "not 
silver,  the  rims  not  silver!" — "No," cried  I,  "no  more  silver 
than  your  saucepan." — "  And  so,"  returned  she,  "  we  have 
parted  with  the  colt,  and  have  only  got  a  gross  of  fjreen  spec- 
tacles with  copper  rims  and  shagreen  cases !  A  murrain 
take  such  trumpery!  The  blockhead  has  been  imposed 
upon,  and  should  have  known  his  company  better." — "There 
my  dear,"  cried  I,  "you  are  wrong,  he  should  not  have 
known  them  at  all." — "  Marry,  hang  the  idiot,"  returned 
she,  "  to  bring  me  such  stuff !  if  I  had  them  I  would  throw 
them  on  the  fire." — "There  again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear," 
cried  I ;  "  for  though  they  be  copper,  we  will  keep  them 
by  us,  as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than 
nothing." 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived.  He 
now  saw  that  he  had  indeed  been  imposed  upon  by  a 
prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his  figure,  had  market  i 
him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  therefore  asked  the  circumstance  • 
of  his  deception.  He  sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked 
the  fair  in  search  of  another.  A  reverend-looking  man 
brought  him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of  having  one  to  sell. 
"  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "we  met  another  man,  very  well 


VKAR  Of  WAKEFTELD. 


dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty  pounds  upon  these, 
saying,  that  he  wanted  money,  and  would  dispose  of  them. 
for  a  third  of  the  value.  The  first  gentleman,  who  pre- 
tended to  be  my  friend,  whispered  me  to  buy  them,  and 
Cautioned  me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer  pass.  I  sent  foi 
Mr.  Flamborough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they 
did  me,  and  so  at  last  we  were  persuaded  to  buy  the  twc 
gross  between  us.* 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

M*.   BURCHELL  IS   FOUND  TO    BE   AN     ENEMY  ;    FOR    HE    HAS    THE 

CONFIDENCE  TO  GIVE   DISAGREEABLE  ADVICE. 

UR  family  had  now  made  several  attempts  to  be 
fine  ;  but  some  unforeseen  disaster  demolished 
each  as  soon  as  projected.  I  endeavoured  to 
take  the  advantage  of  every  disappointment,  to 
improve  their  good  sense  in  proportion  as  they  were  frus- 
trated in  ambition.  "  You  see,  my  children,"  cried  I,  "  how 
little  is  to  be  got  by  attempts  to  impose  upon  the  world,  in 
coping  with  our  betters.  Such  as  are  poor,  and  will  asso- 
ciate with  none  but  the  rich,  are  hated  by  those  they  avoid, 
and  despised  by  those  they  follow.  Unequal  combinations 
are  always  disadvantageous  to  the  weaker  side :  the  rich 
having  the  pleasure,  and  the  poor  the  inconveniences  that 
result  from  them.  But  come,  Dick,  my  boy  and  repeat 
the  fable  you  were  reading  to-day,  for  the  good  of  the 
company." 

"  Once  upon   a  time,"   cried   the   child,   "  a  Giant  and 
Dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept  together.     They  made  a 

bargain  that  they  would  never  forsake  each  other,  but  go 

20 — a 


$08  TffE  VICAR  OF 


seek  adventures.  The  first  battle  they  fought  was  with  two 
Saracens,  and  the  Dwarf,  who  was  very  courageous,  dealt 
one  of  the  champions  a  most  angry  blow.  It  did  the 
Saracen  very  little  injury,  who,  lifting  up  his  sword,  fairly 
struck  off  the  poor  Dwarfs  arm.  He  was  now  in  a  woeful 
plight  ;  but  the  Giant  coming  to  his  assistance,  in  a  short 
time  left  the  two  Saracens  dead  on  the  plain,  and  the  Dwarf 
cut  off  the  dead  man's  head  out  of  spite.  They  then 
travelled  on  to  another  adventure.  This  was  against  three 
bloody-minded  Satyrs,  who  were  carrying  away  a  damsel 
in  distress.  The  Dwarf  was  not  quite  so  fierce  now  as 
before  ;  but  for  all  that,  struck  the  first  blow,  which  was 
returned  by  another,  that  knocked  out  his  eye  ;  but  the 
Giant  was  soon  up  with  them,  and  had  they  not  fled,  would 
certainly  have  killed  them  every  one.  They  were  all  very 
joyful  for  this  victory,  and  the  damsel  who  was  relieved,  fell 
in  love  with  the  Giant,  and  married  him.  They  now 
travelled  far,  and  farther  than  I  can  tell,  till  they  met  with 
a  company  of  robbers.  The  Giant,  for  the  first  time,  was 
foremost  now  ;  but  the  Dwarf  was  not  far  behind.  The 
battle  was  stout  and  long.  Wherever  the  Giant  came,  all 
fell  before  him  ;  but  the  Dwarf  had  like  to  have  been  killed 
more  than  once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two 
adventurers  ;  but  the  Dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  Dwarf  had 
now  lost  an  arm,  a  leg,  and  an  eye,  while  the  Giant  was 
without  a  single  wound.  Upon  which  he  cried  out  to  his 
little  companion,  '  My  little  hero,  this  is  glorious  sport  ;  let 
us  get  one  victory  more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honour  for 
ever.'  —  '  No/  cries  the  Dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time  grown 


MR.  BVRCftELL  IS  FOUND  TO  BE  AN  ENEMY.         & 

wiser,  'no,  I  declare  off;  I'll  fight  no  more;  for  I  find  in 
every  battle  that  you  get  all  the  honour  and  rewards,  but 
all  the  blows  fall  upon  me/  " 

I  was  going  to  moralize  upon  this  fable,  when  our  atten- 
tion was  called  off  to  a  warm  dispute  between  my  wife  and 
Mr.  Burchell,  upon  my  daughters'  intended  expedition  to 
town.  My  wife  very  strenuously  insisted  upon  the  advantages 
that  would  result  from  it.  Mr.  Burchell,  on  the  contrary,  dis- 
suaded her  with  great  ardour,  and  I  stood  neuter.  His 
present  dissuasions  seemed  but  the  second  part  of  those 
which  were  received  with  so  ill  a  grace  in  the  morning. 
The  dispute  grew  high,  while  poor  Deborah,  instead  of 
reasoning  stronger,  talked  louder,  and  at  last  was  obliged 
to  take  shelter  from  a  defeat  in  clamour.  The  conclusion 
of  her  harangue,  however,  was  highly  displeasing  to  us 
all :  she  knew,  she  said,  of  some  who  had  their  secret 
reasons  for  what  they  advised  ;  but,  for  her  part,  she  wished 
such  to  stay  away  from  her  house  for  the  future. — 
"  Madam,"  cried  Burchell,  with  looks  of  great  composure, 
which  tended  to  inflame  her  the  more,  "as  for  secret 
reasons,  you  are  right :  I  have  secret  reasons,  which  I  for- 
oear  to  mention,  because  you  are  not  able  to  answer  those 
of  which  I  make  no  secret :  but  I  find  my  visits  here  are 
become  troublesome  :  I'll  take  my  leave  therefore  now,  and 
perhaps  come  once  more  to  take  a  final  farewell  when  I  am 
quitting  the  country."  Thus  saying,  he  took  up  his  hat, 
nor  could  the  attempts  of  Sophia,  whose  looks  seemed  to 
upbraid  his  precipitancy,  prevent  his  going. 

When  gone,  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some  minutes 


3«0  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD, 

with   confusion.     My  wife,  who   knew  herself  to   be  the 
cause,  strove  to  hide  her  concern  with  a  forced  smile,  and 
an   air   of  assurance,  which  I  was  willing   to   reprove  : — 
"  How,    woman,"   cried    I   to   her,   "  is    it   thus   we   treat 
strangers  ?  Is  it  thus  we  return  their  kindness  ?  Be  assured, 
my  dear,  that  these  were  the  harshest  words,  and  to  me  the 
most  unpleasing,    that   ever  escaped    your   lips !" — "  Why 
would  he  provoke  me  then?"  replied  she  ;  "  but  I  know  the 
motives  of  his  advice  perfectly  well.     He   would  prevent 
my  girls  from  going  to  town,  that  he  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  my  youngest  daughter's  company  here  at  home.     But 
whatever  happens,  she  shall  choose  better  company  than 
such  low-lived  fellows  as  he." — "  Low-lived,  my  dear,  do 
you  call  him  ?"  cried  I ;  "it  is  very  possible  we  may  mis- 
take this  man's  character,  for  he  seems  upon  some  occasion.- 
the  most  finished  gentleman  I  ever  knew.   Tell  me,  Sophia 
my  girl,  has  he  ever  given  you  any  secret  instances  of  hi.- 
attachment?" — "His  conversation  with  me,  sir,"  replied  m\ 
daughter,  "has  ever  been  sensible,  modest,  and  pleasing 
As  to  aught  else — no,  never.     Once,  indeed,  I  remember  u 
have  heard  him  say  he  never  knew  a  woman  who  couKi 
find  merit  in  a  man  that  seemed  poor." — "Such,  my  dear, 
cried  I,  "  is  the  common  cant  of  all  the  unfortunate  or  « 
But  I  hope  you  have  been  taught  to  judge  properly  c 
men,  and  that  it  would  be  even  madness  to  exper 
ness  from  one  who  has  been  so  very  bad  an  er 
his  own.    Your  mother  and  I  have  now  better 
you.  The  next  winter,  which  you  will  probabh 
will  give  you  opportunities  of  making  a  more 


MR.  BURCHELL  tS  fiOVND  TO  BE  AN  ENEMY.         3n 

What  Sophia's  reflections  were  upon  this  occasion  1 
cannot  pretend  to  determine ;  but  I  was  not  displeased  at 
the  bottom,  that  we  were  rid  of  a  guest  from  whom  I  had 
much  to  fear.  Our  breach  of  hospitality  went  to  my  con- 
science a  little ;  but  I  quickly  silenced  that  monitor  by  two 
or  three  specious  reasons,  which  served  to  satisfy  and  re- 
concile me  to  myself.  The  pain  which  conscience  gives  the 
man  who  has  already  done  wrong,  is  soon  got  over.  Con- 
science is  a  coward  ;  and  those  faults  it  has  not  strength 
enough  to  pi  event,  it  seldom  has  justice  enough  to  accuse. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


FRESH    MORTIFICATIONS,    OR    A    DEMONSTRATION     THAT    SEEMING 
CALAMITIES  MAY  BE  REAL  BLESSINGS. 

[HE  journey  of  my  daughters  to  town  was  now 
resolved  upon,  Mr.  Thornhill  having  kindly 
promised  to  inspect  their  conduct  himself,  and 
inform  us  by  letter  of  their  behaviour.  But  it 
was  thought  indispensably  necessary  that  their  appearance 
should  equal  the  greatness  of  their  expectations,  which 
could  not  be  done  without  expense.  We  debated,  there- 
fore, in  full  council,  what  were  the  easiest  methods  of  rais- 
ing money,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  what  we  could  most 
conveniently  sell.  The  deliberation  was  soon  finished  :  it 
was  found  that  our  remaining  horse  was  utterly  useless  for 
the  plough,  without  his  companion,  and  equally  unfit  for  the 
road,  as  wanting  an  eye  :  it  was  therefore  determined  that 
we  should  dispose  of  him,  for  the  purposes  above-mentioned, 
at  the  neighbouring  fair,  and,  to  prevent  imposition,  that  I 
should  go  with  him  myself.  Though  this  was  one  of  the 
first  mercantile  transactions  of  my  life,  yet  I  had  no  doubt 
about  acquitting  myself  with  reputation.  The  opinion  a 


SEEMING  CALAMITIES  MA  Y  BE  REAL  BLESSINGS.      $rt 

man  forms  of  his  own  prudence  is  measured  by  that  of  the 
company  he  keeps  ;  and  as  mine  was  mostly  in  the  family 
way,  I  had  conceived  no  unfavourable  sentiments  of  my 
worldly  wisdom.  My  wife,  however,  next  morning,  at  part* 
ing,  after  I  had  got  some  paces  from  the  door,  called  me 
back,  to  advise  me,  in  a  whisper,  to  have  all  my  eyes  about 
me. 

I  had,  in  the  usual  forms,  when  I  came  to  the  fair,  put 
my  horse  through  all  his  paces  ;  but  for  some  time  had  no 
bidders.  At  last  a  chapman  approached,  and,  after  he  had 
for  a  good  while  examined  the  horse  round,  finding  him 
blind  of  one  eye,  he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him.  A 
second  came  up,  but  observing  he  had  a  spavin,  declared  he 
would  not  take  him  for  the  driving  home.  A  third  per- 
ceived he  had  a  windgall,  and  would  bid  no  money.  A 
fourth  knew  by  his  eye  that  he  had  the  botts.  A  fifth 
wondered  what  a  plague  I  could  do  at  the  fair  with  a  blind, 
spavined,  galled  hack,  that  was  only  fit  to  be  cut  up  for  a 
dog-kennel.  By  this  time  I  began  to  have  a  most  hearty 
contempt  for  the  poor  animal  myself,  and  was  almost 
ashamed  at  the  approach  of  every  customer  ;  for  though  I 
did  not  entirely  believe  all  the  fellows  told  me,  yet  I  re- 
flected that  the  number  of  witnesses  was  a  strong  presump- 
tion they  were  right,  and  St.  Gregory,  upon  good  works, 
professes  himself  to  be  of  the  same  opinion. 

I  was  in  this  mortifying  situation,  when  a  brother  clergy- 
man, an  old  acquaintance,  who  had  also  business  at  the 
fair,  came  up,  and  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  proposed 
adjourning  to  a  public-house  and  taking  a  glass  of  whatever 


3*4  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

we  could  get.  I  readily  closed  with  the  offer,  and  entering 
an  ale-house,  we  were  shown  into  a  little  back  room,  where 
there  was  only  a  venerable  old  man,  who  sat  wholly  intent 
over  a  large  book,  which  he  was  reading.  I  never  in  my 
life  saw  a  figure  that  prepossessed  me  more  favourably. 
His  locks  of  silver  grey  venerably  shaded  his  temples,  and 
his  green  old  age  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  health  and 
benevolence.  However,  his  presence  did  not  interrupt  our 
conversation.  My  friend  and  I  discoursed  on  the  various 
turns  of  fortune  we  had  met :  the  Whistonian  controversy, 
my  last  pamphlet,  the  archdeacon's  reply,  and  the  hard 
measure  that  was  dealt  me.  But  our  attention  was  in  a 
short  time  taken  off  by  the  appearance  of  a  youth,  who, 
entering  the  room,  respectfully  said  something  softly  to  the 
old  stranger.—  "  Make  no  apologies,  my  child,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  To  do  good  ;  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  all  our  fellow- 
creatures  :  take  this,  I  wish  it  were  more  ;  but  five  pounds 
will  relieve  your  distress,  and  you  are  welcome." — The 
modest  youth  shed  tears  of  gratitude,  and  yet  his  gratitude 
was  scarcely  equal  to  mine.  I  could  have  hugged  the  good 
old  man  in  my  arms,  his  benevolence  pleased  me  so.  He 
continued  to  read,  and  we  resumed  our  conversation,  until 
my  companion,  after  some  time,  recollecting  that  he  had 
business  to  transact  in  the  fair,  promised  to  be  soon  back  ; 
adding,  that  he  always  desired  to  have  as  much  of  Dr. 
Primrose's  company  as  possible.  The  old  gentleman,  hear- 
i.ig  my  name  mentioned,  seemed  to  look  at  me  with  atten- 
tion for  some  time,  and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most 
respectfully  demanded  if  I  was  any  way  related  to  the  great 


SEEMING  CALAMITIES  MA  Y  BE  HEAL  BLESSINGS.      313 


Primrose,  that  courageous  monogamist,  who  had  been  the 
bulwark  of  the  church 

Never  did  my  heart  feel  sincerer  rapture  than  at  that 
moment.  "  Sir,"  cried  I,  "  the  applause  of  so  good  a 
man  as  I  am  sure  you  are,  adds  to  that  happiness  in  mj 
breast  which  your  benevolence  has  already  excited.  You 
behold  before  you,  sir,  that  Dr.  Primrose,  the  monogamist, 
whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  call  great.  You  here  see 
that  unfortunate  divine,  who  has  so  long,  and  it  would  ill 
become  me  to  say  successfully,  fought  against  the  deutero- 
gamy of  the  age." — "  Sir,"  cried  the  stranger,  struck  with 
awe,  "  I  fear  I  have  been  too  familiar ;  but  you'll  forgive 
my  curiosity,  sir  :  I  beg  pardon." — "  Sir,"  cried  I,  grasping 
his  hand,  "you  are  so  far  frorn  displeasing  me  by  your 
familiarity,  that  I  must  beg  you'll  accept  my  friendship  as 
you  already  have  my  esteem." — "  Then  with  gratitude  I 
accept  the  offer,"  cried  he,  squeezing  me  by  the  hand, 
"  thou  glorious  pillar  of  unshaken  orthodoxy ;  and  do  I 

behold "     I  here  interrupted  what  he  was  going  to  say  ; 

for  though  as  an  author  I  could  digest  no  small  share  o! 
flattery,  yet  now  my  modesty  would  permit  no  more 
However,  rib  lovers  in  romance  ever  cemented  a  more 
instantaneous  friendship.  We  talked  upon  several  sub- 
jects ,  at  first  I  thought  him  rather  devout  than  learned, 
and  began  to  think  he  despised  all  human  doctrines  a.- 
dross.  Yet  this  no  way  lessened  him  in  my  esteem  ;  for  1 
had  for  some  time  begun  privately  to  harbour  such  an 
opinion  myself;  I  therefore  took  an  occasion  to  observe,  that 
the  world  in  general  began  to  be  blamably  indifferent  as 


3l6  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

to  doctrinal  matters,  and  followed  human  speculations  too 
much — "  Ay,  sir,"  replied  he,  as  if  he  had  reserved  all  his 
learning  to  that  moment ;  "  ay,  sir,  the  world  is  in  its 
dotage,  and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world 
has  puzzled  philosophers  of  all  ages.  What  a  medley  of 
opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  creation  of  the 
world !  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus 
Lucanus  have  all  attempted  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these 
words,  Anarchon  ara  kai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  imply  that 
all  things  have  neither  beginning  nor  end.  Manetho  also,  who 
lived  about  the  time  of  Nebuchadon-Asser — Asser  being  a 
Syriac  word  usually  applied  as  a  surname  to  the  kings  of 
that  country,  as  Teglat  Phael-Asser,  Nabon-Asser — he,  I 
say,  formed  a  conjecture  equally  absurd  :  for  as  we  usually 
say,  ek  to  biblion  kubernetes,  which  implies  that  books  will 
never  teach  the  world ;  so  he  attempted  to  investigate. — 
But,  sir,  I  ask  pardon,  I  am  straying  from  the  question." — 
That  he  actually  was  ;  nor  could  I  for  my  life  see  how  the 
creation  of  the  world  had  anything  to  do  with  the  business 
I  Was  talking  of ;  but  it  was  sufficient  to  show  me  that  he 
was  a  man  of  letters,  and  I  now  reverenced  him  the  more. 
I  was  resolved  therefore  to  bring  him  to  the  touch-stone ; 
but  he  was  too  mild  and  too  gentle  to  contend  for  victory. 
Whenever  I  made  any  observation  that  looked  like  a 
challenge  to  controversy,  he  would  smile,  shake  his  head, 
and  say  nothing ;  by  which  I  understood  he  could  say 
much  if  he  thought  proper.  The  subject  therefore  insen- 
sibly changed  from  the  business  of  antiquity  to  that  which 
brought  us  to  the  fair;  mine,  I  told  him,  was  to  sell  « 


SEEMING  CALAMITIES  MA  Y  BE  REAL  BLESSINGS.       317 

horse,  and,  very  luckily  indeed,  his  was  to  buy  one  for  one  of 
his  tenants.  My  horse  was  soon  produced,  and  in  fine  we 
struck  a  bargain.  Nothing  now  remained  but  to  pay  me, 
and  he  accordingly  pulled  out  a  thirty-pound  note,  and  bid 
me  change  it.  Not  being  in  a  capacity  of  complying  with 
this  demand,  he  ordered  his  footman  to  be  called  up,  who 
made  his  appearance  in  a  very  genteel  livery.  "  Here, 
Abraham,"  cried  he,  "  go  and  get  gold  for  this  ;  you'll  do  it 
at  neighbour  Jackson's,  or  anywhere."  While  the  fellow 
was  gone,  he  entertained  me  with  a  pathetic  harangue  on 
the  great  scarcity  of  silver,  which  I  undertook  to  improve, 
by  deploring  also  the  great  scarcity  of  gold  ;  so  that  by  the 
time  Abraham  returned,  we  had  both  agreed  that  money 
was  never  so  hard  to  be  come  at  as  now.  Abraham 
returned  to  inform  us,  that  he  had  been  over  the  whole  fair, 
and  could  not  get  change,  though  he  had  offered  half  a 
crown  for  doing  it.  This  was  a  very  great  disappointment 
to  us  all ;  but  the  old  gentleman  having  paused  a  little, 
asked  me  if  I  knew  one  Solomon  Flamborough,  in  my  part 
of  the  country :  upon  replying  that  he  was  my  next-door 
neighbour,  "If  that  be  the  case  then,"  returned  he,  "I 
believe  we  shall  deal.  You  shall  have  a  draft  upon  him, 
-ayable  at  sight  ;  and  let  me  tell  you  he  is  as  warm  a  man 
as  any  within  five  miles  round  him  Honest  Solomon  and 
I  have  been  acquainted  for  many  years  together.  I  re- 
member  I  always  beat  him  at  three  jumps ;  but  he  could 
hop  on  one  leg  farther  than  I."  A  draft  upon  my  neigh- 
hour  was  to  me  the  same  as  money;  for  I  was  sufficiently 
couvinced  of  his  ability:  the  draft  was  signed  ard  put 


318  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

into  my  hands,  and  Mr.  Jenkinson,  the  old  gentleman,  his 
man  Abraham,  and  my  horse,  old  Blackberry,  trotted  off 
very  well  pleased  with  each  other. 

After  a  short  interval,  being  left  to  reflection,  I  began  to 
recollect  that  I  had  done  wrong  in  taking  a  draft  from  a 
stranger,  and  so  prudently  resolved  upon  following  the  pur- 
chaser, and  having  back  my  horse.  But  this  was  now  too 
late :  I  therefore  made  directly  homewards,  resolving  to  get 
the  draft  changed  into  money  at  my  friend's  as  fast  as 
possible.  I  found  my  honest  neighbour  smoking  his  pipe 
at  his  own  door ;  and  informing  him  that  I  had  a  small  bill 
upon  him,  he  read  it  twice  over.  "  You  can  read  the  name, 
I  suppose,"  cried  I,  "  Ephraim  Jenkinson  ?" — "  Yes,"  re- 
turned he,  "  the  name  is  written  plain  enough,  and  I  know 
the  gentleman  too,  the  greatest  rascal  under  the  canopy  of 
heaven.  This  is  the  very  same  rogue  who  sold  us  the 
spectacles.  Was  he  not  a  venerable-looking  man,  with 
grey  hair,  and  no  flaps  to  his  pocket-holes  ?  And  did  he 
not  talk  a  long  string  of  learning  about  Greek,  and  cos- 
mogony, and  the  world  ?"  To  this  I  replied  with  a  groan. 
"Ay,"  continued  he,  "  he  has  but  that  one  piece  of  learning 
in  the  world,  and  he  always  talks  rt  whenever  he  finds  a 
scholar  in  company  ;  but  I  know  the  rogue,  and  will  catch 
him  yet." 

Though  I  was  already  sufficiently  mortified,  my  greatest 
struggle  was  to  come,  in  facing  my  wife  and  daughters. 
No  truant  was  ever  more  afraid  of  returning  to  school,  there 
to  behold  the  master's  visage,  than  I  was  of  going  home. 
I  was  determined,  however,  to  anticipate  their  fury,  by  first 
falling  into  a  passion  myself. 


SEEMING  CALAMITIES  MAY  BE  REAL  BLESSINGS.      319 

But,  alas !  upon  entering,  I  found  the  family  no  way  dis- 
posed for  battle.  My  wife  and  girls  were  all  in  tears,  Mr. 
Thornhill  having  been  there  that  day  to  inform  them  that 
their  journey  to  town  was  entirely  over.  The  two  ladies, 
having  heard  reports  of  us  from  some  malicious  person 
about  us,  were  that  day  set  out  for  London.  He  could 
neither  discover  the  tendency  nor  the  author  of  these ;  but 
whatever  they  might  be,  or  whoever  might  have  broached 
them,  he  continued  to  assure  our  family  of  his  friendship 
and  protection.  I  found,  therefore,  that  they  bore  my  dis- 
appointment with  great  resignation,  as  it  was  eclipsed  in  the 
greatness  of  their  own.  But  what  perplexed  us  most  was 
to  think  who  could  be  so  base  as  to  asperse  the  character 
of  a  family  so  harmless  as  ours,  too  humble  to  excite  envy 
and  too  inoffensive  to  create  disgust 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ALL    MR.   BURCHELL'S   VILLANY  AT    ONCE    DETECTED.      THE  FOLL1 
OF   BEING  OVER-WISE. 

HAT  evening,  and  a  part  of  the  following  day, 
was  employed  in  fruitless  attempts  to  discovef 
our  enemies  ;  scarce  a  family  in  the  neighbour- 
hood but  incurred  our  suspicions,  and  each  of 
us  had  reasons  for  our  opinion  best  known  to  ourselves. 
As  we  were  in  this  perplexity,  one  of  our  little  boys,  who 
had  been  playing  abroad,  brought  in  a  letter-case,  which  he 
found  on  the  green.  It  was  quickly  known  to  belong  to 
Mr.  Burchell,  with  whom  it  had  been  seen  ;  and,  upon 
examination,  contained  some  hints  upon  different  subjects  ; 
but  what  particularly  engaged  our  attention  was  a  sealed 
note,  superscribed,  "  The  copy  of  a  letter  to  be  sent  to  the 
ladies  at  Thornhill  Castle."  It  instantly  occurred  that  he 
was  the  base  informer,  and  we  deliberated  whether  the  note 
should  not  be  broken  open.  I  was  against  it  ;  but  Sophia, 
who  said  she  was  sure  that  of  all  men  he  would  be  the  last 
to  be  guilty  of  so  much  baseness,  insisted  upon  its  being 


UR.  BVRC HELL'S  VtLLANY  DETECTED.  3*' 

read.     In  t/iis  she  was  seconded  by  the  rest  of  the  family, 
and,  at  their  joint  solicitation,  I  read  as  follows: — 

"  LADIES, 

"  The  bearer  will  sufficiently  satisfy  you  as  to  the  person 
from  whom  this  comes  :  one  at  least  the  friend  of  innocence, 
and  ready  to  prevent  its  being  seduced.  I  am  informed, 
for  a  truth,  that  you  have  some  intention  of  bringing  two 
young  ladies  to  town,  whom  I  have  some  knowledge  of, 
under  the  character  of  companions.  As  I  would  neither 
have  simplicity  imposed  upon,  nor  virtue  contaminated,  I 
must  offer  it  as  my  opinion,  that  the  impropriety  of  such  a 
step  will  be  attended  with  dangerous  consequences.  It  has 
never  been  my  way  to  treat  the  infamous  or  the  lewd  with 
severity ;  nor  should  I  now  have  taken  this  method  of 
explaining  myself,  or  reproving  folly,  did  it  not  aim  at 
guilt.  Take,  therefore,  the  admonition  of  a  friend,  and 
seriously  reflect  on  the  consequences  of  introducing  infamy 
and  vice  into  retreats-  where  peace  and  innocence  have 
hitherto  resided." 

Our  doubts  were  now  at  an  end.  There  seemed  indeed 
something  applicable  to  both  sides  in  this  letter,  and  its 
censures  might  as  well  be  referred  to  those  to  whom  it  was 
written  as  to  us ;  but  the  malicious  meaning  was  obvious, 
and  we  went  no  farther.  My  wife  had  scarce  patience  to 
hear  me  to  the  end,  but  railed  at  the  writer  with  unre 
strained  resentment.  Olivia  was  equally  severe,  and 
.Sophia  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  his  baseness.  As  for 

21 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 


my  part,  it  appeared  to  me  one  of  the  vilest  instances  of 
unprovoked  ingratitude  I  had  ever  met  with.  Nor  could  I 
account  for  it  in  any  other  manner  than  by  imputing  it  to  his 
desire  of  detaining  my  youngest  daughter  in  the  country, 
to  have  the  more  frequent  opportunities  of  an  interview. 
In  this  manner  we  all  sat  ruminating  upon  schemes  of 
vengeance,  when  our  other  little  boy  came  running  in  to  tell 
us  that  Mr.  Burchell  was  approaching  at  the  other  end  of  the 
field.  It  is  easier  to  conceive  than  describe  the  complicated 
sensations  which  are  felt  from  the  pain  of  a  recent  injury, 
and  the  pleasure  of  approaching  vengeance.  Though  our 
intentions  were  only  to  upbraid  him  with  his  ingratitude. 
yet  it  was  resolved  to  do  it  in  a  manner  that  would  be  per- 
fectly cutting.  For  this  purpose  we  agreed  to  meet  him 
with  our  usual  smiles,  to  chat  in  the  beginning  with  more 
than  ordinary  kindness,  to  amuse  him  a  little  ;  and  then  in 
the  midst  of  the  flattering  calm  to  burst  upon  him  like  an 
earthquake,  and  overwhelm  him  with  the  sense  of  his  own 
baseness.  This  being  resolved  upon,  my  wife  undertook 
to  manage  the  business  herself,  as  she  really  had  some 
talents  for  such  an  undertaking.  We  saw  him  approach  ; 
he  entered,  drew  a  chair,  and  sat  down.  —  "  A  fine  day,  Mr. 
Burchell."  —  "  A  very  fine  day,  doctor  ;  though  I  fancy  we 
shall  have  some  rain  by  the  shooting  of  my  corns."  —  "The 
shooting  of  your  horns,"  cried  my  wife  in  a  loud  fit  of 
laughter,  and  then  asked  pardon  for  being  fond  of  a  joke. 
—  "  Dear  madam,"  replied  he,  "  I  pardon  you  with  all  my 
heart,  for  I  protest  I  should  not  have  thought  it  a  joke  had 
you  not  told  me."  —  "  Perhaps  not.  sir,"  cried  my  wife, 


MR.  BURCHELVS  VILLANV  DETECTED.  Ji.l 

winking  at  us,  "  and  yet  I  dare  say  you  can  tell  us  ho\ 
many  jokes  go  to  an  ounce." — "  I  fancy,  madam,"  returnee1 
Mr.  Burchell,  "you  have  been  reading  a  jest-book  thi~ 
morning — that  ounce  of  jokes  is  so  very  good  a  conceit  : 
and  yet,  madam,  I  had  rather  see  half  an  ounce  of  under- 
standing."— "I  believe  you  might,"  cried  my  wife,  still 
smiling  at  us,  though  the  laugh  was  against  her ;  "  and  yet 
I  have  seen  some  men  pretend  to  understanding  that  have 
very  little." — "  And  no  doubt,"  replied  her  antagonist, 
"  you  have  known  ladies  set  up  for  wits  that  had  none." — I 
quickly  began  to  find  that  my  wife  was  likely  to  gain  but 
little  at  this  business ;  so  I  resolved  to  treat  him  in  a  style 
of  more  severity  myself. — "  Both  wit  and  understanding," 
cried  I,  "are  trifles  without  integrity:  it  is  that  which 
gives  value  to  every  character :  the  ignorant  peasant,  with- 
cat  fault,  is  greater  than  the  philosopher  with  many ;  for 
what  is  genius  or  courage  without  a  heart  ? 

'  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God.'  * 

"  I  always  held  that  hackneyed  maxim  of  Pope,**  returned 
Mr.  Burchell,  "  as  very  unworthy  a  man  of  genius,  and  a  base 
desertion  of  his  own  superiority.  As  the  reputation  of 
books  is  raised,  not  by  their  freedom  from  defect,  but  the 
greatness  of  their  beauties  ;  so  should  that  of  men  be 
prized,  not  from  their  exemption  from  fault,  but  the  size  of 
those  virtues  they  are  possessed  of.  The  scholar  may  want 
prudence,  the  statesman  may  have  pride,  and  the  champion 
ferocity :  but  shall  we  prefer  to  these  the  low  mechanic, 
who  laboriously  plMs  on  through  life  without  censure  or 


3*4  THE  VICAR  Of  WAREFIELD. 

applause  ?  We  might  as  well  prefer  the  tame,  correct 
paintings  of  the  Flemish  school,  to  the  erroneous  but 
sublime  animations  of  the  Roman  pencil." 

"  Sir,"  replied  I,  "  your  present  observation  is  just,  when 
there  are  shining  virtues  and  minute  defects  ;  but  when  it 
appears  that  great  vices  are  opposed  in  the  same  mind  to  as 
extraordinary  virtues,  such  a  character  deserves  contempt." 

"  Perhaps,"  cried  he,  "  there  may  be  some  such  monsters 
as  you  describe,  of  great  vices  joined  to  great  virtues  ;  yet, 
in  my  progress  through  life,  I  never  yet  found  one  instance 
of  their  existence  :  on  the  contrary,  I  have  ever  perceived, 
that  where  the  mind  was  capacious  the  affections  were 
good.  And,  indeed,  Providence  seems  kindly  our  friend  in 
this  particular,  thus  to  debilitate  the  understanding  where 
the  heart  is  corrupt,  and  diminish  the  power  where  there  is 
the  will  to  do  mischief.  This  rule  seems  to  extend  even  to 
other  animals  ;  the  little  vermin  race  are  ever  treacherous, 
cruel,  and  cowardly ;  whilst  those  endowed  with  strength 
and  power  are  generous,  brave,  and  gentle." 

"  These  observations  sound  well,"  returned  I,  "  and  yet 
it  would  be  easy  this  moment  to  point  out  a  man,"  and  I 
fixed  my  eye  steadfastly  upon  him,  "  whose  head  and  heart 
form  a  most  detestable  contrast.  Ay,  sir,"  continued  I, 
raising  my  voice,  "and  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity 
of  detecting  him  in  the  midst  of  his  fancied  security.  Do 
you  know  this,  sir — this  pocket-book  ?" — "  Yes,  sir,"  re- 
turned he,  with  a  face  of  impenetrable  assurance  ;  "  that 
pocket-book  is  mine,  and  I  am  glad  you  have  found  it." — 
M  And  do  you  know,"  cried  I,  "  this  letter  ?  Nay,  never 


MR.  BURCHELVS  VILLANY  DETECTED.  325 

falter,  man,  but  look  me  full  in  the  face ;  I  say,  do  you 
know  this  letter  ?"—"  That  letter?"  replied  he;  "yes,  it 
was  I  that  wrote  that  letter." — "  And  how  could  you,"  said 
I,  "so  basely,  so  ungratefully  presume  to  write  this  letter?" 
— "And  how  came  you,"  replied  he,  with  looks  of  un- 
paralleled effrontery,  "  so  basely  to  presume  to  break  open 
this  letter  ?  Don't  you  know,  now,  I  could  hang  you  all 
for  this  ?  All  that  I  have  to  do  is  to  swear  at  the  next 
justice's  that  you  have  been  guilty  of  breaking  open  the 
lock  of  my  pocket-book,  and  so  hang  you  all  up  at  this  door." 
This  piece  of  unexpected  insolence  raised  me  to  such  a  pitch, 
that  I  could  scarce  govern  my  passion.  "  Ungrateful 
wretch  !  begone,  and  no  longer  pollute  my  dwelling  with 
thy  baseness.  Begone,  and  never  let  me  see  thee  again. 
Go  from  my  door  :  and  the  only  punishment  I  wish  thee  is 
an  alarmed  conscience,  which  will  be  a  sufficient  tor- 
mentor !"  So  saying,  I  threw  him  his  pocket-book,  which 
he  took  up  with  a  smile  ;  and,  shutting  the  clasps  with  the 
utmost  composure,  left  us  quite  astonished  at  the  serenity 
of  his  assurance.  My  wife  was  particularly  enraged  that 
nothing  could  make  him  angry,  or  make  him  seem  ashamed 
of  his  villanies.  "  My  dear,"  cried  I,  willing  to  calm  those 
passions  that  had  been  raised  too  high  among  us,  "  we  arc 
not  to  be  surprised  that  bad  men  want  shame  ;  they  only 
blush  at  being  detected  in  doing  good,  but  glory  in  their 
vices.  Guilt -and  Shame,  says  the  allegory,  were  at  first  com- 
panions, and  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey  inseparably 
kept  together.  But  their  union  was  soon  found  to  be  dis- 
agreeable and  inconvenient  to  both.  Guilt  gave  Shame 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


frequent  uneasiness,  and  Shame  often  betrayed  the  secret 
conspiracies  of  Guilt.  After  long  disagreement,  therefore, 
ihey  at  length  consented  to  part  for  ever.  Guilt  boldly 
walked  forward  alone,  to  overtake  Fate,  that  went  before  in 
che  shape  of  an  executioner ;  but  Shame,  being  naturally 
timorous,  returned  back  to  keep  company  with  Virtue, 
which,  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey,  they  had  left 
behind.  Thus,  my  children,  after  men  have  travelled 
through  a  few  stages  in  vice,  Shame  forsakes  them,  and 
returns  back  to  wait  upon  the  few  virtues  they  have  still 
remaining." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  FAMILY  USE  ART,  WHICH  IS  OPPOSED  BY  STILL  GREATER. 

|JH  ATEVER  might  have  been  Sophia's  sensations, 
the  rest  of  the  family  were  easily  consoled  foi 
Mr.  Burchell's  absence  by  the  company  of  our 
landlord,  whose  visits  now  became  more  frequent 
and  longer.  Though  he  had  been  disappointed  in  procur- 
ing my  daughters  the  amusements  of  town,  as  he  designed, 
he  took  every  opportunity  of  supplying  them  with  those 
little  recreations  which  our  retirement  would  admit  of.  He 
usually  came  in  the  morning,  and  while  my  son  and  I 
followed  our  occupations  abroad,  he  sat  with  the  family  at 
home,  and  amused  them  by  describing  town,  with  every 
part  of  which  he  was  particularly  acquainted.  He  couk' 
repeat  all  the  observations  that  were  retailed  in  the  atmo 
sphere  of  the  play-houses,  and  had  all  the  good  things  of  the 
high  wits  by  rote  long  before  they  made  their  way  into  the 
jest-books.  The  intervals  between  conversation  were 
employed  in  teaching  my  daughters  piquet,  or  sometimes 
in  setting  my  two  little  ones  to  box,  to  make  them  sharp, 
as  he  called  it :  but  the  hooes  of  having  him  for  a  son- in 


$28  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEF1ELD. 

law  in  some  measure  blinded  us  to  all  his  imperfections.  It 
must  be  owned  that  my  wife  laid  a  thousand  scheme?  to 
entrap  him ;  or,  to  speak  it  more  tenderly,  used  every  art 
to  magnify  the  merit  of  her  daughter.  If  the  cakes  at  tea 
eat  short  and  crisp,  they  were  made  by  Olivia  ;  if  the  goose- 
berry wine  was  well  knit,  the  gooseberries  were  of  her 
gathering  ;  it  was  her  fingers  which  gave  the  pickles  their 
peculiar  green  ;  and  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding,  it  was 
her  judgment  that  mixed  the  ingredients.  Then  the  poor 
woman  would  sometimes  tell  the  squire,  that  she  thought 
him  and  Olivia  extremely  of  a  size,  and  would  bid  both 
stand  up  to  see  which  was  tallest.  These  instances  of 
cunning,  which  she  thought  impenetrable,  yet  which  every- 
body saw  through,  were  very  pleasing  to  our  benefactor, 
who  gave  every  day  some  new  proofs  of  his  passion,  which, 
though  they  had  not  risen  to  proposals  of  marriage,  yet  we 
thought  fell  but  little  short  of  it ;  and  his  slowness  was 
attributed  sometimes  to  native  bashfulness,  and  sometimes 
to  his  fear  of  offending  his  uncle.  An  occurrence,  however, 
\vhich  happened  soon  after,  put  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  he 
designed  to  become  one  of  our  family ;  my  wife  even  re- 
garded it  as  an  absolute  promise. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a  visit  at 
neighbour  Flamborough's,  found  that  family  had  lately  got 
their  pictures  drawn  by  a  limner,  who  travelled  the  country, 
and  took  likenesses  for  fifteen  shillings  a  head.  As  this 
family  and  ours  had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste, 
our  spirit  took  the  alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us,  and 
notwithstanding  all  I  could  say — and  1  said  much — it  wai 


THE  PAMILY  USE  ART.  329 

resolved  that  we  should  have  our  pictures  done  too.  Having 
therefore,  engaged  the  limner  (for  what  could  1  do  ?),  our 
next  deliberation  was  to  show  the  superiority  of  our  taste 
in  the  attitudes.  As  for  our  neighbour's  family,  there  were 
seven  of  them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges,  a 
thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in  life,  no  composition  in 
the  world.  We  desired  to  have  something  in  a  brighter 
style,  and,  after  many  debates,  at  length  came  to  an  unani- 
mous resolution  of  being  drawn  together  in  one  large 
historical  family  piece.  This  would  be  cheaper,  since  .one 
frame  would  serve  for  all,  and  it  would  be  infinitely  more 
genteel ;  for  all  families  of  any  taste  were  now  drawit  in  the 
same  manner.  As  we  did  not  immediately  recollect  an 
historical  subject  to  hit  us,  we  were  contented  each  with 
being  drawn  as  independent  historical  figures.  My  wife 
desired  to  be  represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was 
requested  not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her 
stomacher  and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be  as 
Cupids  by  her  side  ;  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band,  was 
to  present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whistonian  controversy. 
Olivia  would  be  drawn  as  an  Amazon,  sitting  upon  a  bank  of 
flowers,  dressed  in  a  green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with  gold, 
and  a  whip  in  her  hand.  Sophia  was  to  be  a  shepherdess, 
with  as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  nothing; 
and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with  a  hat  and  white 
leather.  Our  taste  so  much  pleased  the  squire,  that  he  in- 
sisted on  being  put  in  as  one  of  the  family,  in  the  character 
01  Alexander  the  Great,  at  Olivia's  feet.  This  was  con- 
sidered by  us  all  as  an  indication  of  his  desire,  to  be  intro- 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEF1ELD. 


duced  into  the  family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his  request.  The 
painter  was  therefore  set  to  work,  and  as  he  wrought  with 
assiduity  and  expedition,  in  less  than  four  days  the  whole 
was  completed.  The  piece  was  large,  and  it  must  be  owned 
he  did  not  spare  his  colours  ;  for  which  my  wife  gave  him 
great  encomiums.  We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his 
performance  ;  but  an  unfortunate  circumstance,  which  had 
not  occurred  till  the  picture  was  finished,  now  struck  us  with 
dismay.  It  was  so  very  large  that  we  had  no  place  in  the 
house  where  to  fix  it.  How  we  all  came  to  disregard  so 
material  a  point  is  inconceivable  ;  but  certain  it  is,  we  had 
been  all  greatly  remiss.  This  picture,  therefore,  instead  of 
gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a  most  mor- 
tifying manner,  against  the  kitchen  wall,  where  the  canvas 
\va$  stretched  and  painted,  much  too  large  to  be  got  through 
any  of  the  doors,  and  the  jest  of  all  our  neighbours.  One 
compared  it  to  Robinson  Crusoe's  long-boat,  too  large  to 
je  removed;  another  thought  it  more  resembled  a  reel  in  a 
bottle  ;  some  wondered  how  it  could  be  got  out  ;  but  still 
•nore  were  amazed  how  it  ever  got  in. 

But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it  effectually 
raised  more  malicious  suggestions  in  many.  The  squire's 
)ortrait  being  found  united  with  ours,  was  an  honour  too 
,rreat  to  escape  envy.  Scandalous  whispers  began  to  circu- 
rxte  at  our  expense,  and  our  tranquillity  was  continually 
listurbed  by  persons  who  came  as  friends  to  tell  us  what 
vas  said  of  us  by  enemies.  These  reports  were  always 
sented  with  becoming  spirit;  but  scandal  ever  improves 
by  opposition. 


THE  FAMILY  USE  ART.  33« 

We  once  again,  therefore,  entered  into  consultation  upon 
obviating  the  malice  of  our  enemies,  and  at  last  came  to  a 
resolution  which  had  too  much  cunning  to  give  me  entire 
satisfaction.  It  was  this :  as  our  principal  object  was  to 
discover  the  honour  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  addresses,  my  wife 
undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his  advice  in 
the  choice  of  a  husband  for  her  eldest  daughter :  if  this 
was  not  found  sufficient  to  induce  him  to  a  declaration,  it 
was  then  resolved  to  terrify  him  with  a  rival.  To  this  last 
step,  however,  I  would  by  no  means  give  my  consent,  till 
Olivia  gave  me  the  most  solemn  assurances  that  she  would 
marry  the  person  provided  to  rival  him  upon  this  occasion, 
if  he  did  not  prevent  it  by  taking  her  himself.  Such  was 
the  scheme  laid,  which,  though  I  did  not  strenuously 
oppose,  I  did  not  entirely  approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  see 
us,  my  girls  took  care  to  be  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  give 
their  mamma  an  opportunity  of  putting  her  scheme  in 
execution  ;  but  they  only  retired  to  the  next  room,  from 
whence  they  could  overhear  the  whole  conversation.  My 
wife  artfully  introduced  it  by  observing  that  one  of  the  Miss 
Flamboroughs  was  likely  to  have  a  very  good  match  of  it 
in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the  squire  assenting,  she  proceeded 
to  remark  that  they  who  had  warm  fortunes  were  always 
sure  of  getting  good  husbands.  "  But  heaven  help,"  con- 
tinued she,  "the  girls  who  have  none!  What  signifies  beauty, 
Mr.  Thornhill  ?  or  what  signifies  all  the  virtues  and  all  the 
qualifications  in  the  world,  in  this  age  of  self-interest  ?  It 
is  not,  What  is  she  ?  but  What  has  she  ?  is  all  the  cry." 


33*  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

"  Madam,"  returned  he,  "  I  highly  approve  the  justice  as 
well  as  the  novelty  of  your  remarks ;  and  if  I  were  a  king 
it  should  be  otherwise  :  it  should  then  indeed  be  fine  times 
for  the  girls  without  fortunes:  our  two  young  ladies  should 
be  the  first  for  whom  I  would  provide." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  returned  my  wife,  "  you  are  pleased  to  be 
facetious ;  but  I  wish  I  were  a  queen,  and  then  I  know 
where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look  for  a  husband. 
But  now  that  you  put  it  into  my  head,  seriously,  Mr. 
Thornhill,  can't  you  recommend  me  a  proper  husband  for 
her  ?  She  is  now  nineteen  years  old,  well  grown,  and  well 
educated ;  and,  in  my  humble  opinion,  does  not  want  for 
parts." 

"  Madam,"  replied  he,  "  if  I  were  to  choose,  I  would  find 
out  a  person  possessed  of  every  accomplishment  that  can 
make  an  angel  happy ;  one  with  prudence,  fortune,  taste, 
and  sincerity :  such,  madam,  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  the 
proper  husband." — "  Ay,  sir,"  said  she  ;  "but  do  you  know 
of  any  such  person?" — "No,  madam,"  returned  he,  "it  is 
impossible  to  know  any  person  that  deserves  to  be  her 
husband  :  she's  too  great  a  treasure  for  one  man's  posses- 
sion :  she's  a  goddess  :  upon  my  soul,  I  speak  what  I  think, 
she's  an  angel." — "  Ah,  Mr.  Thornhill,  you  only  flatter  my 
poor  girl ;  but  we  have  been  thinking  of  marrying  her  to 
one  of  your  tenants,  whose  mother  is  lately  dead,  and  who 
wants  a  manager :  you  know  whom  I  mean — Farmer 
Williams  ;  a  warm  man,  Mr.  Thornhill,  able  to  give  her 
good  bread,  and  who  has  several  times  made  her  pro- 
posals ;"  which  was  actually  the  case.  "  But,  sir,"  concluded 


THE  FAMILY  USE  ART.  333 

she,  "I  should  be  glad  to  have  your  approbation  of  our 
choice." — "  How,  madam!"  replied  he^  "  my  approbation  ? 
my  approbation  of  such  a  choice  ?  Never !  What !  sacri- 
fice so  much  beauty,  and  sense,  and  goodness  to  a  creature 
insensible  of  the  blessing  ?  Excuse  me — I  can  never 
approve  of  such  a  piece  of  injustice ;  and  I  have  my 
reasons." — "  Indeed,  sir,"  cried  Deborah,  "  if  you  have  your 
reasons,  that's  another  affair ;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
those  reasons." — "  Excuse  me,  madam,"  returned  he,  "  they 
lie  too  deep  for  discovery,"  laying  his  hand  upon  his  bosom ; 
'4  they  remain  buried,  riveted  here." 

After  he  was  gone,  upon  a  general  consultation,  we  could 
not  tell  what  to  make  of  these  fine  sentiments.  Olivia  con- 
sidered them  as  instances  of  the  most  exalted  passion,  but 
I  was  not  quite  so  sanguine ;  it  seemed  to  me  pretty  plain 
that  they  had  more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them  ;  yet, 
whatever  they  might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prose- 
cute the  scheme  of  Farmer  Williams,  who,  from  my 
daughter's  first  appearance  in  the  country,  had  paid  her  hi* 
addresses. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


SCARCELY  ANY   VIRTUE    FOUND    TO    RESIST   THE   POWER   OF   LONG 
AND  PLEASING  TEMPTATION. 

I  only  studied  my  child's  real  happiness,  tht 
assiduity  of  Mr.  Williams  pleased  me,  as  he  was 
in  easy  circumstances,  prudent,  and  sincere.     It 
required  but  very   little  encouragement  to  re- 
vive his  former  passion ;  so  that  in  an  evening  or  two  he 
and  Mr.  Thornhill  met  at  our  house,  and  surveyed  each 
other  for  some  time  with  looks  of  anger ;   but  Williams 
owed  his  landlord  no  rent,  and  little  regarded  his  indigna- 
tion.    Olivia,  on  her  side,  acted  the  coquette  to  perfection, 
if  that  might  be  called  acting  which  was  her  real  character, 
pretending  to  lavish  all  her  tenderness  on  her  new  lover. 
Mr.  Thornhill  appeared  quite  dejected  at  this  preference 
and,  with  a  pensive  air,  took  leave ;  though  I  own  it  puzzled 
vie  to  find  him  in  so  much  pain  as  he  appeared  to  be,  when 
ie  had  it  in  his  power  so  easily  to  remove  the  cause,  by 
leclaring  an  honourable  passion.     But  whatever  uneasiness 


VIRTUE  NOT  FOUND  TO  RESIST  TEMPTATION.        335 

he  seemed  to  endure,  it  could  easily  be  perceived  that 
Olivia's  anguish  was  much  greater.  After  any  of  these 
interviews  with  her  lovers,  of  which  there  were  several,  she 
usually  retired  to  solitude,  and  there  indulged  her  grief.  It 
was  in  such  a  situation  I  found  her  one  evening,  after  she 
had  been  for  some  time  supporting  a  fictitious  gaiety. 
"You  now  see,  my  child,"  said  I,  "that  your  confidence  in 
Mr.  Thornhill's  passion  was  all  a  dream :  he  permits  the 
rivalry  of  another,  every  way  his  inferior,  though  he  knows 
it  lies  in  his  power  to  secure  you  to  himself  by  a  candid 
declaration." — "  Yes,  papa,"  returned  she,  "  but  he  has  his 
reasons  for  this  delay ;  I  know  he  has.  The  sincerity  of 
his  looks  and  words  convinces  me  of  his  real  esteem.  A 
short  time,  I  hope,  will  discover  the  generosity  of  his  senti- 
ments, and  convince  you  that  my  opinion  of  him  has  been 
more  just  than  yours." — "  Olivia,  Tny  darling,"  returned  I, 
"  every  scheme  that  has  been  hitherto  pursued  to  compel 
him  to  a  declaration  has  been  proposed  and  planned  by 
yourself,  nor  can  you  in  the  least  say  that  I  have  con- 
strained you  ;  but  you  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  I 
will  ever  be  instrumental  in  suffering  his  honest  rival  to  be 
the  dupe  of  your  ill-placed  passion.  Whatever  time  you 
require  to  bring  your  fancied  admirer  to  an  explanation 
shall  be  granted  ;  but  at  the  expiration  of  that  term,  if  he 
is  still  regardless,  I  must  absolutely  insist  that  honest  Mr. 
Williams  shall  be  rewarded  for  his  fidelity :  the  character 
which  I  have  hitherto  supported  in  life  demand*  this  from 
me ;  and  my  tenderness  as  a  parent  shall  never  influence 
my  integrity  as  a  man.  Name,  then,  your  day ;  let  it  be 


536  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEF1ELD. 

as  distant  as  you  think  propel ;  and  in  the  meantime  take 
care  to  let  Mr.  Thornhill  know  the  exact  time  on  which  I 
design  delivering  you  up  to  another.  If  he  really  loves 
you,  his  own  good  sense  will  readily  suggest  that  there  is 
but  one  method  alone  to  prevent  his  losing  you  for  ever." 
This  proposal^  which  she  could  not  avoid  considering  as 
perfectly  just,  was  readily  agreed  to.  She  again  renewed 
her  most  positive  promise  of  marrying  Mr.  Williams,  in 
case  of  the  other's  insensibility ;  and  at  the  next  oppor- 
tunity, in  Mr.  Thornhill 's  presence,  that  day  month  was 
fixed  upon  for  her  nuptials  with  his  rival. 

Such  vigorous  proceedings  seemed  to  redouble  Mr. 
Thornhill's  anxiety ;  but  what  Olivia  really  felt  gave  me 
some  uneasiness.  In  this  struggle  between  prudence  and 
passion  her  vivacity  quite  forsook  her,  and  every  oppor- 
tunity of  solitude  was  'sought,  and  spent  in  tears.  One 
week  passed  away,  but  Mr.  Thornhill  made  no  efforts  to 
restrain  her  nuptials.  The  succeeding  week  he  was  still 
assiduous,  but  not  more  open.  On  the  third  he  discon- 
tinued his  visits  entirely ;  and  instead  of  my  daughter 
testifying  any  impatience,  as  I  expected,  she  seemed  to 
retain  a  pensive  tranquillity,  which  I  looked  upon  as 
resignation.  For  my  own  part,  I  was  now  sincerely  pleased 
with  thinking  that  my  child  was  going  to  be  secured  in  a 
continuance  of  competence  and  peace,  and  frequently 
applauded  her  resolution  in  preferring  happiness  to  osten- 
tation. 

It  was  within  about  four  days  of  her  intended  nuptials 


NOT  FOUND  TO  RESIST  TEMPTATION.         & 

that  my  little  family,  at  night,  were  gathered  round  a 
charming  fire,  telling  stories  of  the  past,  and  laying 
schemes  for  the  future;  busied  in  forming* -a  thousand  pro- 
jects, and  laughing  at  whatever  folly  came  uppermost. 
"Well,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "we  shall  soon,  my  boy,  have  a 
wedding  in  the  family.  What  is  your  opinion  of  matters 
and  things  in  general  ?" — "  My  opinion,  father,  is  that  all 
things  go  on  very  well ;  and  I  was  just  now  thinking  that 
when  sister  Livy  is  married  to  Farmer  Williams,  we  shall 
then  have  the  loan  of  his  cider-press  and  brewing-tub^  for 
nothing." — "  That  we  shall,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "  and  he  will 
sing  us  '  Death  and  the  Lady,'  to  raise  our  spirits,  into  the 
bargain." — "  He  has  taught  that  song  to  our  Dick,"  cried 
Moses  ;  "and  I  think  he  goes  through  it  very  prettily." — 
"  Does  he  so  ?"  cried  I  ;  "  then  let  us  have  it.  Where  is 
little  Dick  ?  let  him  up  with  it  boldly." — "  My  brother 
Dick,"  cried  Bill,  my  youngest,  "is  just  gone  out  with 
sister  Livy ;  but  Mr.  Williams  has  taught  me  two  songs, 
and  I'll  sing  them  for  you,  papa.  Which  song  do  you 
choose — '  The  D,  'ng  Swan,'  or  the  '  Elegy  on  the  Death 
of  a  Mad  Dog  ?  "— "  The  Elegy,  child,  by  all  means," 
said  I ;  "  I  never  heard  that  yet ;  and,  Deborah,  my  life, 
grief,  you  know,  is  dry  ;  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  the  best 
gooseberry  wine  to  keep  up  our  spirits.  I  have  wept  so 
much  at  all  sorts  of  elegies  of  late,  that,  without  an 
enlivening  glass,  I  am  sure  this  will  overcome  me  ;  and 
Sophy,  love,  take  your  guitar,  and  thrum  in  with  the  boy  a 

little." 

*a 


THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEF1ELD. 


AN  ELEGY 

OH  THE  DEATH  OF  A  HAD  DOO. 

"Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song  ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

**  In  Islington  there  was  a  man 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

**  A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

**  And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound* 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 

"  This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ) 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 
Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

M  Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 

The  wondering  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  its  wito 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

"The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad* 
They  swore  the  man.  would  die. 

**  But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  doc  it  was  that  died." 


VIRTUE  NOT  FOUND  W  RESIST  TEMPTATION.        339 

"  A  very  good  boy,  Bill,  upon  my  word  ;  and  an  elegy 
that  may  truly  be  called  tragical.  Come,  my  children, 
here's  Bill's  health,  and  may  he  one  day  be  a  bishop !" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cries  my  wife ;  "  and  if  he  but 
preaches  as  well  as  he  sings,  I  make  no  doubt  of  him. 
The  most  of  his  family,  by  the  mother's  side,  could  sing  a 
good  song ;  it  was  a  common  saying,  in  our  country,  that 
the  family  of  the  Blenkinsopps  could  never  look  straight 
before  them  ;  nor  the  Hugginsons  blow  out  a  candle  ;  that 
there  were  none  of  the  Grograms  but  could  sing  a  song,  or 
of  the  Marjorams  but  could  tell  a  story." — "  However  that 
be,"  cried  I,  "the  most  vulgar  ballad  of  all  generally 
pleases  me  better  than  the  fine  modern  odes,  and  things 
that  petrify  us  in  a  single  stanza :  productions  that  we  at 
once  detest  and  praise.  Put  the  glass  to  your  brother, 
Moses.  The  great  fault  of  these  elegiasts  is  that  they  are 
in  despair  for  griefs  that  give  the  sensible  part  of  mankind 
very  little  pain.  A  lady  loses  her  muff,  her  fan,  or  her 
lapdog,  and  so  the  silly  poet  runs  home  to  versify  the 
disaster." 

"That  may  be  the  mode,"  cried  Moses,  "in  sublimer 
composition ;  but  the  Ranelagh  songs  that  come  down  to 
us  are  perfectly  familiar,  and  all  cast  in  the  same  mould 
Colin  meets  Dolly,  and  they  hold  a  dialogue  together ;  he 
gives  her  a  fairing  to  put  in  her  hair,  and  she  presents  him 
with  a  nosegay  ;  and  then  they  go  together  to  church, 
where  they  give  good  advice  to  young  nymphs  and  swains 
to  get  married  as  fast  as  they  can." 

"  And  very  good  advice,  too,"  cried  I ;  "  and  I  am  told 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFI&U>. 


there  is  not  a  place  in  the  world  where  advice  can  be  given 
with  so  much  propriety  as  there  ;  for,  as  it  persuades  us  to 
marry,  it  also  furnishes  us  with  a  wife  ;  and  surely  thai 
must  be  an  excellent  market,  my  boy,  where  we  are  told 
what  we  want,  and  supplied  with  it  when  wanting." 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Moses,  "and  I  know  but  of  two 
such  markets  for  wives  in  Europe  —  Ranelagh  in  England, 
and  Fontarabia  in  Spain.  The  Spanish  market  is  open 
once  a  year,  but  our  English  wives  are  saleable  even 
night." 

"You  are  right,  my  boy,"  cried  his  mother;  "old  Eng- 
land is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  husbands  to  get 
wives."  —  "  And  for  wives  to  manage  their  husbands,"  inter- 
rupted I.  "  It  is  a  proverb  abroad  that  if  a  bridge  were 
built  across  the  sea,  all  the  ladies  of  the  Continent  would 
come  over  to  take  pattern  from  ours  :  for  there  are  no  such 
wives  in  Europe  as  our  own.  But  let  us  have  one  bottle 
more,  Deborah,  my  life  !  —  and,  Moses,  give  us  a  good  song 
What  thanks  do  we  not  owe  to  Heaven  for  thus  bestowing 
tranquillity,  health,  and  competence  !  I  think  myself  hap- 
pier now  than  the  greatest  monarch  upon  earth.  He  ha.' 
no  such  fireside,  nor  such  pleasant  faces  about  it.  Yes 
Deborah,  we  are  now  growing  old  ;  but  the  evening  of  out 
life  is  likely  to  be  happy.  We  are  descended  from  an 
cestors  that  knew  no  stain,  and  we  shall  leave  a  good  am 
virtuous  race  of  children  behind  us.  While  we  live  the> 
vill  be  our  support  and  our  pleasure  here,  and  when  wt 
-ie  they  will  transmit  our  honour  untainted  to  posterity 
'""•-•me,  my  son,  we  wait  for  a  song  :  let  us  have  a  cherut, 


VIRTUE  NOT  FQUttD  TO  RESIST  TEMPTATION.        341 

But  where  is  my  darling  Olivia?  That  little  cherub's 
voice  is  always  sweetest  in  the  concert."  Just  as  I  spoke, 
Dick  came  running  in — "O  papa,  papa,  she  is  gone 
from  us — she  is  gone  from  us ;  my  sister  Livy  is  gone 
from  us  for  ever !" — "  Gone,  child  ?" — "  Yes  ;  she  is  gone 
off  with  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise ;  and  one  of  them 
kissed  her,  and  said  he  would  die  for  her ;  and  she  cricc 
very  much,  and  was  for  coming  back ;  but  he  persuaded 
her  again,  and  she  went  into  the  chaise,  and  said,  'Oh, 
what  will  my  poor  papa  do  when  he  knows  I  am  undone  ?'  " 
— "  Now,  then,"  cried  I,  "  my  children,  go  and  be  miser- 
able ;  for  we  shall  never  enjoy  one  hour  more.  And  O 
may  Heaven's  everlasting  fury  light  upon  him  and  his! 
Thus  to  rob  me  of  my  child  ! — And  sure  it  will — for  taking 
back  my  sweet  innocent  that  I  was  leading  up  to  heaven ! 
Such  sincerity  as  my  child  was  possessed  of!  But  all  our 
earthly  happiness  is  now  over.  Go,  my  children,  go  and  be 
miserable  and  infamous— for  my  heart  is  broken  within 
me." — "  Father,"  cried  my  son,  "  is  this  your  fortitude  ?" — 
"  Fortitude,  child  ? — Yes,  he  shall  see  I  have  fortitude : 
bring  me  my  pistols — I'll  pursue  the  traitor — while  he  is 
on  earth,  I'll  pursue  him  !  Old  as  I  am,  he  shall  find  I  can 
sting  him  yet — the  villain — the  perfidious  villain  !"  I  had 
by  this  time  reached  down  my  pistols,  when  my  poor  wife, 
whose  passions  were  not  so  strong  as  mine,  cau.  :  me  in 
her  arms. — "  My  dearest,  dearest  husband,"  cried  she,  "thr 
Bible  is  the  only  weapon  that  is  fit  for  your  old  hands  nov. 
Open  that,  my  love,  and  read  our  anguish  into  patience , 
for  she  has  vilely  deceived  us." — *  Indeed  sir," 


342  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

my  son,  after  a  pause,  *  your  rage  is  too  violent  and  un- 
becoming. You  should  be  my  mother's  comforter,  and 
you  increase  her  pain.  It  ill  suited  you  and  your  reverend 
character  thus  to  curse  your  greatest  enemy  ;  you  should 
not  have  cursed  him,  villain  as  he  is." — "  I  did  not  curse 
him,  child,  did  I  ?" — "  Indeed,  sir,  you  did ;  you  cursed 
him  twice." — "  Then  may  Heaven  forgive  me  and  him,  if  I 
did.  And  now,  my  son,  I  see  it  was  more  than  human 
benevolence  that  first  taught  us  to  bless  our  enemies. 
Blessed  be  His  holy  name  for  all  the  good  He  has  given, 
and  for  all  He  has  taken  away.  But  it  is  not — it  is  not  a 
small  distress  that  can  wring  tears  from  these  old  eyes, 
that  have  not  wept  for  so  many  years.  My  child  !  to  undo 
my  darling !  May  confusion  seize — Heaven  forgive  me  ; 
what  am  I  about  to  say  ?  You  may  remember,  my  love, 
how  good  she  was,  and  how  charming ;  till  this  very 
moment  all  her  care  was  to  make  us  happy.  Had  she  but 
died !  But  she  is  gone,  the  honour  of  our  family  is  con- 
taminated ;  and  I  must  look  out  for  happiness  in  other 
worlds  than  here.  But,  my  child,  you  saw  them  go  off; 
perhaps  he  forced  her  away.  If  he  forced  her,  she  may 
yet  be  innocent." — "  Ah,  no,  sir,"  cried  the  child  ;  "  he  only 
kissed  her  and  called  her  his  angel,  and  she  wept  very 
much,  and  leaned  upon  his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  very 
fast." — "  She  is  an  ungrateful  creature,"  cried  my  wife,  who 
could  scarce  speak  for  weeping,  "  to  use  us  thus  :  she  never 
had  the  least  constraint  put  upon  her  affections.  The  vilft 
strumpet  has  basely  deserted  her  parents,  without  any  pro- 
vocation :  thus  to  bring  your  grey  hairs  to  the  grave  I  and 
I  must  shortly  follow." 


VIRTUE  NOT  POWfD  TO  Jt£SfST  TEMPTATION.         343 

In  this  manner  that  night,  the  first  of  our  real  misfortunes, 
was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  complaint  and  ill-supported 
sallies  of  enthusiasm.  I  determined,  however,  to  find  out 
our  betrayer,  wherever  he  was,  and  reproach  his  baseness 
The  next  morning  we  missed  our  wretched  child  at  break- 
fast, where  she  used  to  give  life  and  cheerfulness  to  us  all. 
My  wife,  as  before,  attempted  to  ease  her  heart  by  re- 
proaches. "  Never,"  cried  she,  "  shall  that  vilest  stain  of 
our  family  again  darken  these  harmless  doors.  I  will  never 
call  her  daughter  more.  No!  let  the  strumpet  live  with 
her  vile  seducer  :  she  may  bring  us  to  shame,  but  she  shall 
never  more  deceive  us." 

"  Wife,"  said  I,  "  do  not  talk  thus  hardly  ;  my  detestation 
of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours  ;  but  ever  shall  this  house 
and  this  heart  be  open  to  a  poor,  returning,  repentant 
sinner.  The  sooner  she  returns  from  her  transgression,  the 
more  welcome  shall  she  be  to  me.  For  the  first  time,  the 
very  best  may  err :  art  may  persuade,  and  novelty  spread 
out  its  charm  The  first  fault  is  the  child  of  simplicity,  but 
every  other  the  offspring  of  guilt.  Yes,  the  wretched  crea- 
ture shall  be  welcome  to  this  heart  and  this  house,  though 
stained  with  ten  thousand  vices.  I  will  again  hearken  to 
the  music  of  her  voice,  again  will  I  hang  fondly  on  her 
bosom,  if  I  find  but  repentance  there.  My  son,  bring 
hither  my  Bible  and  my  staff;  I  will  pursue  her,  whereve* 
sne  is ;  and  though  I  cannot  save  her  from  shame,  I  ma> 
prevent  the  continuance  of  her  iniquity." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  PURSUIT  OF  A  FATHER  TO  RECLAIM  A  LOST  CHILD  TO  VIRTUE 

HOUGH  the  child  could  not  describe  the  gentle- 
man's person  who  handed  his  sister  into  the 
post-chaise,  yet  my  suspicions  fell  entirely  upon 
our  young  landlord,  whose  character  for  such 
intrigues  was  but  too  well  known  :  I  therefore  directed  my 
steps  towards  Thornhill  Castle,  resolving  to  upbraid  him, 
and,  if  possible,  to  bring  back  my  daughter ;  but  before  I 
had  reached  his  seat  I  was  met  by  one  of  my  parishioners, 
who  said  he  saw  a  young  lady  resembling  my  daughter,  in 
a  post-chaise  with  a  gentleman,  who,  by  the  description,  I 
could  only  guess  to  be  Mr.  Burchell ;  and  that  they  drove 
very  fast.  This  information,  however,  did  by  no  means 
satisfy  me ;  I  therefore  went  to  the  young  squire's,  and, 
though  it  was  yet  early,  insisted  on  seeing  him  immediately. 
He  soon  appeared  with  the  most  open,  familiar  air,  and 
seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  my  daughter's  elopement,  pro- 
testing upon  his  honour  that  he  was  quite  a  stranger  to 
it.  I  now,  therefore,  condemned  my  former  suspicions,  and 
could  turn  them  only  on  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  I  recollected. 


RECLAIMING  A  LOST  CHILD  TO  VIRTUE.  345 

had  of  late  several  private  conferences  with  her ;  but  the 
appearance  of  another  witness  left  me  no  room  to  doubt  of 
his  villainy,  who  averred  that  he  and  my  daughter  were 
actually  gone  towards  the  Wells,  about  thirty  miles  off, 
where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  company.  Being  driven  to 
that  state  of  mind  in  which  we  are  more  ready  to  act  pre- 
cipitately than  to  reason  right,  I  never  debated  with  myself 
whether  these  accounts  might  not  have  been  given  by 
persons  purposely  placed  in  my  way  to  mislead  me,  but 
resolved  to  pursue  my  daughter  and  her  fancied  deluder 
thither.  I  walked  along  with  earnestness,  and  inquired  of 
several  by  the  way  ;  but  received  no  accounts,  till,  entering 
the  town,  I  was  met  by  a  person  on  horseback,  whom  I 
remembered  to  have  seen  at  the  squire's,  and  he  assured 
me  that  if  I  followed  them  to  the  races,  which  were  but 
thirty  miles  farther,  I  might  depend  upon  overtaking  them  ; 
for  he  had  seen  them  dance  there  the  night  before,  and  the 
whole  assembly  seemed  charmed  with  my  daughter's  per- 
formance. Early  the  next  day  I  walked  forward  to  the 
races,  and  about  four  in  the  afternoon  I  came  upon  the 
course.  The  company  made  a  very  brilliant  appearance, 
all  earnestly  employed  in  one  pursuit — that  of  pleasure : 
how  different  from  mine,  that  of  reclaiming  a  lost  child  ro 
virtue !  I  thought  I  perceived  Mr.  Burchell  at  some  dis- 
tance from  me ;  but,  as  he  dreaded  an  interview,  upon  my 
approaching  him  he  mixed  among  a  crowd,  and  I  saw  him 
no  more. 

I  now  reflected  that  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  continue 
my  pursuit  farther,  and  resolved  to  return  home  to  an  inno- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


cent  family,  who  wanted  my  assistance  :  but  the  agitations 
of  my  mind,  and  the  fatigues  I  had  undergone,  threw  me 
into  a  fever,  the  symptoms  of  which  I  perceived  before  I 
came  off  the  course.     This  was  another  unexpected  stroke, 
as  I  was  more  than  seventy  miles  distant  from  home  :  how- 
ever, I  retired  to  a  little  alehouse  by  the  roadside  ;  and  in 
:his  place,  the  usual  retreat  of  indigence  and  frugality,  I  laid 
me  down,  patiently  to  wait  the  issue  of  my  disorder.     I 
anguished  here  for  near  three  weeks  ;  but  at  last  my  con- 
^itution  prevailed,  though  I  was  unprovided  with  moneyto 
Jefray  the  expenses  of  my  entertainment.     It  is  possible 
the  anxiety  from  this  last  circumstance  alone  might  have 
brought  on  a  relapse,  had  I  not  been  supplied  by  a  traveller 
who  stopped  to  take  a  cursory  refreshment.     This  person 
was  no  other  than  the  philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  who  had    written  so    many  little   books  for 
children  ;  he  called  himself  their  friend  ;  but  he  was  the 
friend  of  all  mankind.     He  was  no  sooner  alighted  but  he 
vas  in  haste  to  be  gone  ;  for  he  was  ever  on  business  of  the 
itmost  importance,  and  was  at  that  time  actually  compiling 
materials  for  the  history  of  one  Mr.  Thomas  Trip.     I  im- 
mediately recollected  this  good-natured  man's  red  pimpled 
face  ;  for  he  had  published  for  me  against  the  deutoroga- 
mists  of  the  age  ;  and  from  him  I  borrowed  a  few  pieces  to 
be  paid  at  my  return.     Leaving  the  inn,  therefore,  as  I  wa^ 
yet  but  weak,  I  resolved  to  return  home  by  easy  journey 
of  ten  miles  a  day. 

My  health  and  usual  tranquillity  were  almost  restored 
and  I  now  condemned  that   pride  which    had   made  me 


RECLAIMING  A  LOST  CHILD  TO  VIRTUE.  347 

refractory  to  the  hand  of  correction.  Man  little  knows  what 
calamities  are  beyond  his  patience  to  bear  till  he  tries  them. 
As,  in  ascending  the  heights  of  ambition,  which  look  bright 
from  below,  every  step  we  rise  shows  us  some  new  and 
gloomy  prospect  of  hidden  disappointment ;  so,  in  our 
descent  from  the  summits  of  pleasure,  though  the  vale  of 
misery  below  may  appear  at  first  dark  and  gloomy,  yet 
the  busy  mind,  still  attentive  to  its  own  amusement,  finds, 
as  we  descend,  something  to  flatter  and  to  please.  Still,  as 
we  approach,  the  darkest  objects  appear  to  brighten,  and 
the  mental  eye  becomes  adapted  to  its  gloomy  situation. 

I  now  proceeded  forward,  and  had  walked  about  two 
hours,  when  I  perceived  what  appeared  at  a  distance  like  a 
waggon,  which  I  was  resolved  to  overtake  ;  but,  when  I 
came  up  with  it,  found  it  to  be  a  strolling  company's  cart, 
that  was  carrying  their  scenes  and  other  theatrical  furniture 
to  the  next  village,  where  they  were  to  exhibit. 

The  cart  was  attended  only  by  the  person  who  drove  it, 
and  one  of  the  company  ;  as  the  rest  of  the  players  were  to 
follow  the  ensuing  day.  "  Good  company  upon  the  road," 
says  the  proverb,  "  is  the  shortest  cut ;"  I  therefore  entered 
into  conversation  with  the  poor  player  ;  and,  as  I  once  had 
some  theatrical  powers  myself,  I  descanted  on  such  topics 
with  my  usual  freedom  ;  but  as  I  was  but  little  acquainted 
with  the  present  state  of  the  stage,  I  demanded  who  were 
the  present  theatrical  writers  in  vogue,  who  the  Drydens 
and  Otways  of  the  day.  "  I  fancy,  sir/'  cried  the  player, 
"few  of  our  modern  dramatists  would  think  themselves 
much  honoured  by  being  compared  to  the  writers  you 


348  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

mention  :  Dryden's  and  Rowe's  manner,  sir,  are  quite  out  of 
fashion  :  our  taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  century  :  Fletcher, 
Ben  Jonson,  and  all  the  plays  of  Shakspere,  are  the  only 
things  that  go  down." — "  How !"  cried  I :  "is  it  possible 
the  present  age  can  be  pleased  with  that  antiquated  dialect, 
that  obsolete  humour,  those  overcharged  characters,  which 
abound  in  the  works  you  mention  ?" — "  Sir,"  returned  my 
companion,  "the  public  thinks  nothing  about  dialect,  or 
humour,  or  character,  for  that  is  none  of  their  business ; 
they  only  go  to  be  amused,  and  find  themselves  happy 
when  they  can  enjoy  a  pantomime  under  the  sanction  of 
Jonson's  or  Shakspere's  name." — "So  then,  I  suppose," 
cried  I,  "  that  our  modern  dramatists  are  rather  imitators  of 
Shakspere  than  nature." — "To  say  the  truth,"  returned  my 
companion,  "  I  don't  know  that  they  imitate  anything  at 
all ;  nor,  indeed,  does  the  public  require  it  of  them  :  it  is 
not  the  compositic  n  of  the  piece,  but  the  number  of  starts 
and  attitudes  that  may  be  introduced,  that  elicits  applause. 
I  have  known  a  piece,  with  not  one  jest  in  the  whole, 
shrugged  into  popularity :  and  another  saved  by  the  poet 
throwing  in  a  fit  of  the  gripes.  No,  sir,  the  works  of  Con- 
greve  and  Farquhar  have  too  much  wit  in  them  for  the 
present  taste  ;  our  modern  dialect  is  much  more  natural." 

By  this  time  the  equipage  of  the  strolling  company  was 
arrived  at  the  village,  which,  it  seems,  had  been  apprised  of 
our  approach,  and  was  come  out  to  gaze  at  us  ;  for  my 
companion  observed  that  strollers  always  have  more  spec- 
tators  without  doors  than  within.  I  did  not  consider  the 
impropriety  of  my  being  in  such  company  till  1  saw  a  mob 


RECLAIMING  A  LOST  CHILD  TO  VIRTUE.  349 

gather  about  me:  I  therefore  took  shelter,  as  fast  as 
possible,  in  the  first  alehouse  that  offered  ;  and  being 
shown  into  the  common  room,  was  accosted  by  a  very  well- 
dressed  gentleman,  who  demanded  whether  I  was  the  real 
chaplain  of  the  company,  or  whether  it  was  only  to  be  my 
masquerade  character  in  the  play.  Upon  my  informing 
him  of  the  truth,  and  that  I  did  not  belong  in  any  sort  to 
the  company,  he  was  condescending  enough  to  desire  me 
and  the  player  to  partake  in  a  bowl  of  punch,  over  which 
lie  discussed  modern  politics  with  great  earnestness  and 
interest.  I  set  him  down  in  my  mind  for  nothing  less  than 
a  parliament  man  at  least  ;  but  was  almost  confirmed  in 
my  conjecture  when,  upon  asking  what  there  was  in  the 
house  for  supper,  he  insisted  that  the  player  and  I  should 
sup  with  him  at  his  house  ;  with  which  request,  after  some 
entreaties,  we  were  prevailed  on  to  comply. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  PERSON  DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  PR5- 
SENT  GOVERNMENT,  AND  APPREHENSIVE  OF  THE  LOSS  OF  OUR 
LIBERTIES. 

fHE  house  where  we  were  to  be  entertained 
lying  at  a  small  distance  from  the  village,  our 
inviter  observed  that,  as  the  coach  was  not 
ready,  he  would  conduct  us  on  foot,  and 
we  soon  arrived  at  one  of  the  most  magnificent  mansions 
I  had  seen  in  that  part  of  the  country.  The  apartment 
into  which  we  were  shown  was  perfectly  elegant  and  modern. 
He  went  to  give  orders  for  supper,  while  the  player,  with  a 
wink,  observed  that  we  were  perfectly  in  luck.  Our  enter- 
tainer soon  returned,  an  elegant  supper  was  brought  in, 
two  or  three  ladies  in  an  easy  dishabille  were  introduced, 
and  the  conversation  began  with  some  sprightliness.  Poli 
tics,  however,  was  the  subject  on  which  our  entertainer 
chiefly  expatiated  ;  for  he  asserted  that  liberty  was  at 
once  his  boast  and  his  terror.  After  the  cloth  was  removed 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  last  Monitor ;  to  which 
replying  in  the  negative,  "What,  nor  the  Auditor,  2 


DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  GOVERNMENT.  y>\ 

suppose?"  cried  he. — "Neither,  sir,"  returned  I. — "That's 
strange,  very  strange,"  replied  my  entertainer ;  "  now 
I  read  all  the  politics  that  come  out — the  Daily,  the  Public, 
the  Ledger,  the  Chronicle,  the  London  Evening,  the 
Whitehall  Evening,  the  seventeen  Magazines,  and  the  two 
Reviews ;  and,  though  they  hate  each  other,  I  love  them 
all.  Liberty,  sir,  liberty  is  the  Briton's  boast ;  and,  by 
all  my  coal  mines  in  Cornwall,  I  reverence,  its  guardians. 
— "  Then  it  is  to  be  hoped,"  cried  I,  "  you  reverence  the 
king." — "Yes,"  returned  my  entertainer,  "when  he  does 
nhat  we  would  have  him  ;  but  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has 
done  of  late,  I'll  never  trouble  myself  more  with  his 
matters.  I  say  nothing:  I  think  only  I  could  have 
directed  some  things  better.  I  don't  think  there  has  been 
a  sufficient  number  of  advisers  ;  he  should  advise  with 
every  person  willing  to  give  him  advice,  and  then  we 
should  have  things  done  in  another  guess  manner." 

"I  wish,"  cried  I,  "  that  such  intruding  advisers  were 
fixed  in  the  pillory.  It  should  be  the  duty  of  honest  men 
to  assist  the  weaker  side  of  our  constitution  ;  that  sacred 
/power,  that  has  for  some  years  been  every  day  declining, 
and  losing  its  due  share  of  influence  in  the  state.  But 
these  ignorants  still  continue  the  cry  of  liberty  ;  and  if 
they  have  any  weight,  basely  throw  it  into  the  subsiding 
scale." 

"  How!"  cried  one  of  the  ladies ;  "do  I  live  to  see  one 
so  base,  so  sordid,  as  to  be  an  enemy  to  liberty,  and 
a  defender  of  tyrants; — liberty,  that  sacred  gift  of  Heaven, 
that  glorious  privilege  of  Britons?" 


352  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

"  Can  it  he  possible,"  cried  our  entertainer,  "  that  there 
should  be  any  found,  at  present,  advocates  for  slavery  ? 
Any  who  are  for  meanly  giving  up  the  privileges  of 
Britons  ?  Can  any,  sir,  be  so  abject  ?** 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  I  am  for  liberty,  that  attribute  of 
gods!  Glorious  liberty!  that  theme  of  modern  declama- 
tion. I  would  have  all  men  kings :  I  would  be  a  king 
myself.  We  have  all  naturally  an  equal  right  to  the 
throne ;  we  are  all  originally  equal.  This  is  my  opinion, 
and  was  once  the  opinion  of  a  set  of  honest  men,  who  are 
called  levellers.  They  tried  to  erect  themselves  into  a 
community,  where  all  should  be  equally  free.  But,  alas ! 
it  would  never  answer ;  for  there  were  some  among  them 
stronger,  and  some  more  cunning  than  others,  and  these 
became  masters  of  the  rest ;  for  as  sure  as  your  groom 
rides  your  horses,  because  he  is  a  cunninger  animal  than 
they,  so  surely  will  the  animal  that  is  cunninger  or  stronger 
than  he,  sit  upon  his  shoulders  in  turn.  Since,  then,  it  is 
entailed  upon  humanity  to  submit,  and  some  are  born  to 
command  and  others  to  obey,  the  question  is,  as  there 
must  be  tyrants,  whether  it  is  better  to  have  them  in  the 
same  house  with  us,  or  in  the  same  village,  or  still  farther 
off  in  the  metropolis  ?  Now,  sir,  for  my  own  part,  as  I 
naturally  hate  the  face  of  a  tyrant,  the  farther  off  he  is 
removed  from  me  the  better  pleased  am  I.  The  generality 
of  mankind  also  are  of  my  way  of  thinking,  and  have 
umntmousiy  created  one  king,  whose  election  at  once 
diminishes  the  number  of  tyrants,  and  puts  tyranny  at  the 
greatest  distance  from  the  greatest  number  of  people. 


DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  GOVERNMENT.  ?V- 

Now  the  great,  who  were  tyrants  themselves  before  the 
election  of  one  tyrant,  are  naturally  averse  to  a  power 
raised  over  them,  and  whose  weight  must  ever  lean  heaviest 
on  the  subordinate  orders.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great, 
therefore,  to  diminish  kingly  power  as  much  as  possible  ; 
because,  whatever  they  take  from  that  is  naturally  restored 
to  themselves ;  and  all  they  have  to  do  in  the  state  is 
to  undermine  the  single  tyrant,  by  which  they  resume 
their  primeval  authority.  Now  the  state  may  be  so  cir- 
cumstanced, or  its  laws  may  be  so  disposed,  or  its  men 
of  opulence  so  minded,  as  all  to  conspire  in  carrying  on 
this  business  of  undermining  monarchy  ;  for,  in  the  first 
place,  if  the  circumstances  of  our  state  be  such  as  to  favoui 
the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  make  the  opulent  still 
more  rich,  this  will  increase  their  ambition.  An  accumu 
lation  of  wealth,  however,  must  necessarily  be  the  con 
sequence  when,  as  at  present,  more  riches  flow  in  fron 
external  commerce  than  arise  from  internal  industry;  for 
external  commerce  can  only  be  managed  to  advantage  by 
the  rich,  and  they  have  also  at  the  same  time  all  the 
emoluments  arising  from  internal  industry ;  so  that  the 
rich,  with  us,  have  two  sources  of  wealth,  whereas  the  poor 
have  but  one.  For  this  reason,  wealth  in  all  commercial 
states  is  found  to  accumulate  ;  and  all  such  have  hitherto 
in  time  become  aristocratical.  Again,  the  very  laws  also 
of  the  country  may  contribute  to  the  accumulation  of 
wealth  ;  as  when,  by  their  means,  the  natural  ties  that  bind 
and  poor  together  are  broken,  and  it  is  ordained 

rich  shall  only  marry  with  the  rich  ;  or  when  the 

23 


154  THE  VICAR  OF  WAK~F.FIEL1>. 

learned  are  held  unqualified  to  serve  their  country  as 
counsellors,  merely  from  a  defect  of  opulence,  and  wealth 
is  thus  made  the  object  of  a  wise  man's  ambition  :  by 
these  means  I  say,  and  such  means  as  these,  riches  will 
accumulate.  Now,  the  possessor  of  accumulated  wealth, 
when  furnished  with  the  necessaries  and  pleasures  of  life, 
has  no  other  method  to  employ  the  superfluity  of  his 
fortune  but  in  purchasing  power  ;  that  is,  differently  speak- 
ing, in  making  dependants  by  purchasing  the  liberty  of  the 
needy  or  the  venal  of  men,  who  are  willing  to  bear  the 
mortification  of  contiguous  tyranny  for  bread.  Thus,  each 
very  opulent  man  generally  gathers  round  him  a  circle  of 
the  poorest  of  the  people ;  and  the  polity  abounding  in 
accumulated  wealth  may  be  compared  to  a  Cartesian 
system,  each  orb  with  a  vortex  of  its  own.  Those,  how- 
ever, who  are  willing  to  move  in  a  great  man's  vortex  are 
only  such  as  must  be  slaves,  the  rabble  of  mankind,  whose 
souls  and  whose  education  are  adapted  to  servitude,  and 
who  know  nothing  of  liberty  except  the  name.  But  there 
must  still  be  a  large  number  of  the  people  without  the 
sphere  of  the  opulent  man's  influence,  namely,  that  order 
of  men  which  subsists  between  the  very  rich  and  the  very 
rabble ;  those  men  who  are  possessed  of  too  large  fortunes 
to  submit  to  the  neighbouring  man  in  power,  and  yet  are 
too  poor  to  set  up  for  tyranny  themselves.  In  this  middle 
order  of  mankind  are  generally  to  be  found  all  the  arts, 
wisdom,  and  virtues  of  society  :  this  order  alone  is  known 
to  be  the  true  preserver  of  freedom,  and  may  be  called  the 
people.  Now  it  may  happen  that  this  middle  order  of 


DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  GOVERNMENT  &4 

mankind  may  lose  all  its  influence  in  a  state,  and  its  voi:e 
be  in  a  manner  drowned  in  that  of  the  rabble  ;  for  if  the 
fortune  sufficient  for  qualifying  a  person  at  present  to  give 
his  voice  in  state  affairs  be  ten  times  less  than  was  judged 
sufficient  upon  forming  the  constitution,  it  is  evident  that 
greater  numbers  of  the  rabble  will  thus  be  introduced  into 
the  political  system,  and  they,  ever  moving  in  the  vortex 
of  the  great,  will  follow  where  greatness  shall  direct.  In 
such  a  state,  therefore,  all  that  the  middle  order  has  left  is 
to  preserve  the  prerogative  and  privileges  of  the  one 
principal  governor  with  the  most  sacred  circumspection ; 
for  he  divides  the  power  of  the  rich,  and  calls  off  the  great 
from  falling  with  tenfold  weight  on  the  middle  order  placed 
beneath  them.  The  middle  order  may  be  compared  to  a 
town,  of  which  the  opulent  are  forming  the  siege,  and  of 
which  the  governor  from  without  is  hastening  the  relief. 
While  the  besiegers  are  in  dread  of  an  enemy  over  them, 
it  is  but  natural  to  offer  the  townsmen  the  most  specious 
terms,  to  flatter  them  with  sounds,  and  amuse  them  with 
privileges ;  but  if  they  once  defeat  the  governor  from 
behind,  the  walls  of  the  town  will  be  but  a  small  defence 
to  its  inhabitants.  What  they  may  then  expect  may  be 
seen  by  turning  our  eyes  to  Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice 
where  the  law  governs  the  poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the 
law.  I  am  then  for,  and  would  die  for,  monarchy,  sacred 
monarchy;  for  if  there  be  anything  sacred  amongst  men 
it  must  be  the  anointed  sovereign  of  his  people ;  and  every 
diminution  01  his  power,  in  war  or  peace,  is  an  infringe- 
ment upon  the  real  liberties  of  the  subject  The  sound*  of 


3S«  TffE  VICAR  Of  WAKEFIRLD. 

liberty,  patriotism,  and  Britons,  have  already  done  much; 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  true  sons  of  freedom  will  prevent 
their  ever  doing  more.  I  have  known  many  of  these  pre- 
tended champions  for  liberty  in  my  time,  yet  do  I  not 
remember  one  that  was  not  in  his  heart  and  in  his  family  a 
tyrant" 

My  warmth,  I  found,  had  lengthened  this  harangue  be- 
yond the  rules  of  good  breeding  ;  but  the  impatience  of 
my  entertainer,  who  often  strove  to  interrupt  it,  could  be 
restrained  no  longer.  "  What ! "  cried  he  ;  "  then  I  have 
been  all  this  while  entertaining  a  Jesuit  in  parson's  clothes! 
but,  by  all  the  coal  mines  of  Cornwall,  out  he  shall  pack,  if 
my  name  be  Wilkinson."  I  now  found  T  had  gone  too  far, 
and  asked  pardon  for  the  warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken 
"Pardon?"  returned  he  in  a  fury;  "I  think  such  principles 
demand  ten  thousand  pardons.  What!  give  up  liberty, 
property,  and,  as  the  Gazetteer  says,  lie  down  to  be  saddled 
with  wooden  shoes !  Sir,  I  insist  upon  your  marching  out 
of  this  house  immediately,  to  prevent  worse  consequences. 
Sir,  I  insist  upon  it."  I  was  going  to  repeat  my  remon- 
strances; but  just  then  we  heard  a  footman's  rap  at  the 
door,  and  the  two  ladies  cried  out,  "  As  sure  as  death, 
there  is  our  master  and  mistress  come  home!"  It  seems 
my  entertainer  was  all  this  while  only  the  butler,  who  in 
his  master's  absence  had  a  mind  to  cut  a  figure,  and  be  for 
a  while  the  gentleman  himself;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  he 
talked  politics  as  wall  as  most  country  gentlemen  do.  But 
nothing  could  now  exceed  my  confusion  upon  seeing  the 
gentleman  and  his  lady  enter;  nor  was  their  surprise,  *t 


DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  GOVERNMENT.  3$) 


finding  such  company  and  good  cheer,  less  than  ours. 
"  Gentlemen !"  cried  the  real  master  of  the  house  to  me 
and  my  companion,  "  my  wife  and  I  are  your  most  humble 
servants ;  but  I  protest  this  is  so  unexpected  a  favour,  that 
we  almost  sink  under  the  obligation."  However  unex- 
pected our  company  might  be  to  them,  theirs,  I  am  sure, 
was  still  more  so  to  us ;  and  I  was  struck  dumb  with  the 
apprehensions  of  my  own  absurdity,  when  whom  should  I 
next  see  enter  the  room  but  my  dear  Miss  Arabella 
Wilmot,  who  was  formerly  designed  to  be  married  to  my 
son  George,  but  whose  match  was  broken  off,  as  already 
related.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me  she  flew  to  my  arms  with 
the  utmost  joy.  "  My  dear  sir,"  cried  she,  "to  what  happy 
accident  is  it  that  we  owe  so  unexpected  a  visit  ?  I  am 
sure  my  uncle  and  aunt  will  be  in  raptures  when  they 
find  they  have  got  the  good  Doctor  Primrose  for  their 
guest."  Upon  hearing  my  name,  the  old  gentleman  and 
lady  very  politely  stepped  up,  and  welcomed  me  with  most 
cordial  hospitality ;  nor  could  they  forbear  smiling  on 
being  informed  of  the  nature  of  my  present  visit :  but  the 
unfortunate  butler,  whom  they  at  first  seemed  disposed  to 
turn  away,  was,  at  my  intercession,  forgiven. 

Mr.  Arnold  and  his  lady,  to  whom  the  house  belonged, 
now  insisted  upon  having  the  pleasure  of  my  stay  for  some 
days ;  and  as  their  niece,  my  charming  pupil,  whose  mind 
in  some  measure  had  been  formed  under  my  own  instruc- 
tions, joined  in  their  entreaties,  I  complied.  That  night 
1  was  shown  to  a  magnificent  chamber ;  and  the  next 
morning  early  Miss  Wilmot  desired  to  walk  with  me  in  the 


358  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 

garden,  which  was  decorated  in  the  modern  manner.  Aftei 
some  time  spent  in  pointing  out  the  beauties  of  the  place, 
she  inquired,  with  seeming  unconcern,  when  last  I  had 
heard  from  my  son  George.  "  Alas  !  madam,"  cried  I,  "  he 
has  now  been  near  three  years  absent,  without  ever  writing 
to  his  friends  or  me.  Where  he  is  1  know  not ;  perhaps  I 
shall  never  see  him  or  happiness  more.  No,  my  dear 
madam,  we  shall  never  more  see  such  pleasing  hours  as 
were  once  spent  by  our  fireside  at  Wakefield.  My  little 
family  are  now  dispersing  very  fast ;  and  poverty  has 
brought  not  only  want,  but  infamy  upon  us."  The  good- 
natured  girl  let  fall  a  tear  at  this  account ;  but,  as  I  saw 
her  possessed  of  too  much  sensibility,  I  forbore  a  more 
minute  detail  of  our  sufferings.  It  was,  however,  some  con- 
solation to  me  to  find  that  time  had  made  no  alteration 
in  her  affections,  and  that  she  had  rejected  several  offers 
that  had  been  made  her  since  our  leaving  her  part  of  the 
country.  She  led  me  round  all  the  extensive  improve- 
ments of  the  place,  pointing  to  the  several  walks  and 
arbours,  and  at  the  same  time  catching  from  every  object  a 
hint  for  some  new  question  relative  to  my  son.  In  this 
manner  we  spent  the  forenoon,  till  the  bell  summoned  us 
to  dinner,  where  we  found  the  manager  of  the  strolling 
company  that  I  mentioned  before,  who  was  come  to  dis- 
pose of  tickets  for  the  "  Fair  Penitent,"  which  was.  to  be 
acted  that  evening ;  the  part  of  Horatio  by  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage.  He 
seemed  to  be  very  warm  in  the  praise  of  the  new  per- 
former, and  averred  that  he  never  saw  any  one  who  bid  so 


DISCONTENTED  WITH  THE  GOVERNMENT.  359 

fair  for  excellence.  Acting,  he  observed,  was  not  learned 
in  a  day.  "  But  this  gentleman,"  continued  he,  "  seems 
born  to  tread  the  stage :  his  voice,  his  figure,  and  attitudes 
are  all  admirable.  We  caught  him  up  accidentally  in  our 
journey  down."  This  account  in  some  measure  excited  our 
curiosity,  and,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  ladies,  I  was  prevailed 
upon  to  accompany  them  to  the  playhouse,  which  was  no 
other  than  a  barn.  As  the  company  with  which  I  went 
was  incontestibly  the  chief  of  the  place,  we  were  received 
with  the  greatest  respect,  and  placed  in  the  front  seat  of 
the  theatre ;  where  we  sat  for  some  time,  with  no  small 
impatience,  to  see  Horatio  make  his  appearance.  The  new 
performer  advanced  at  last ;  and  let  parents  think  of  my 
sensations  by  their  own,  when  I  found  it  was  my  unfortu- 
nate son !  He  was  going  to  begin ;  when,  turning  his  eyes 
upon  the  audience,  he  perceived  Miss  Wilmot  and  me,  and 
stood  at  once  speechless  and  immoveable. 

The  actors  behind  the  scenes,  who  ascribed  this  pause  to 
his  natural   timidity,  attempted  to   encourage  him  ;    but 
instead  of  going  on,  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  retired 
jff  the  stage.     I  do  not  know  what  were  my  feelings  on  this 
ccasion,  for  they  succeeded  with  too  much  rapidity  for 
iescription  ;  but  I  was  soon  awaked  from  this  disagreeable 
-verie  by  Miss  Wilmot,  who,  pale,  and  with  a  trembling 
oice,  desired  me  to  conduct  her  back  to  her  uncle's.     When 
v'e  got  home,  Mr.  Arnold,  who  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to  our 
xtraordinary  behaviour,  being  informed  that  the  new  per- 
unner  was  my  son,  sent  his  coach  and  an  invitation  for 
;  and  as  he  persisted  in  his  refusal  to  appear  again  upon 


360 


THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEVIELD. 


the  stage,  the  players  put  another  in  his  place,  and  we  soon 
had  him  with  us.  Mr.  Arnold  gave  him  the  kindest  recep- 
tion, and  I  received  him  with  my  usual  transport,  for  I  could 
never  counterfeit  a  false  resentment.  Miss  Wilmot's  recep- 
tion was  mixed  with  seeming  neglect,  and  yet  I  could  per- 
ceive she  acted  a  studied  part.  The  tumult  in  her  mind 
seemed  not  yet  abated  :  she  said  twenty  giddy  things  that 
looked  like  joy,  and  then  laughed  loud  at  her  own  want  of 
meaning.  At  intervals  she  would  take  a  sly  peep  at  the 
glass,  as  if  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  irresistible  beauty  ; 
and  often  would  ask  questions,  without  giving  any  manner 
of  attention  to  the  answers, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND,  PURSUING    NOVELTY, 
BUT  LOSING  CONTENT. 

i;FTER  we  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  politely 
offered  to  send  a  couple  of  her  footmen  for  my 
son's  baggage,  which  he  at  first  seemed  to 
decline  ;  but,  upon  her  pressing  the  request,  he 
was  obliged  to  inform  her  that  a  stick  and  a  wallet  were 
all  the  moveable  things  upon  this  earth  which  he  could 
boast  of.  "  Why,  ay,  my  son,"  cried  I,  "you  left  me  but 
poor ;  and  poor,  I  find,  you  are  come  back  :  and  yet,  I 
make  no  doubt,  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world." 
— "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  my  son  ;  "  but  travelling  after  For- 
tune is  not  the  way  to  secure  her ;  and,  indeed,  of  late,  I 
have  desisted  from  the  pursuit." — "  I  fancy,  sir,"  cried  Mrs. 
Arnold,  "  that  the  account  of  your  adventures  would  be 
amusing  :  the  first  part  of  them  I  have  often  heard  from 
my  niece  ;  but  could  the  company  prevail  for  the  rest,  it 
would  be  an  additional  obligation." — "  Madam,"  replied  my 
son,  "  I  promise  you  the  pleasure  you  have  in  hearing  will 
not  be  half  so  great  as  my  vanity  in  repeating  them ;  and 


$62  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

yet  in  the  whole  narrative  I  can  scarcely  promise  you  one 
adventure,  as  my  account  is  rather  of  what  I  saw  than 
what  I  did.  The  first  misfortune  of  my  life,  which  you  all 
know,  was  great ;  but  though  it  distressed,  it  could  not 
sink  me.  No  person  ever  had  a  better  knack  at  hoping 
than  I.  The  less  kind  I  found  Fortune  at  one  time,  the 
more  I  expected  from  her  at  another ;  and  being  now  at 
the  bottom  of  her  wheel,  every  new  revolution  might  lift, 
but  could  not  depress  me :  I  proceeded,  therefore,  towards 
London  in  a  fine  morning,  no  way  uneasy  about  to- 
morrow, but  cheerful  as  the  birds  that  carolled  by  the 
road  ;  and  comforted  myself  with  reflecting  that  London 
was  the  mart  where  abilities  of  every  kind  were  sure  of 
meeting  distinction  and  reward. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  town,  sir,  my  first  care  was  to 
deliver  your  letter  of  recommendation  to  our  cousin,  who 
was  himself  in  little  better  circumstances  than  I.  My  first 
scheme,  you  know,  sir,  was  to  be  usher  at  an  academy,  and 
I  asked  his  advice  on  the  affair.  Our  cousin  received  the 
proposal  with  a  true  sardonic  grin.  '  Ay,'  cried  he,  '  this  is 
indeed  a  very  pretty  career  that  has  been  chalked  out  for 
you.  I  have  been  an  usher  to  a  boarding  school  myself ; 
and  may  I  die  by  an  anodyne  necklace,  but  I  had  rather 
be  an  under-turnkey  in  Newgate.  I  was  up  early  and 
late ;  I  was  browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly 
face  by  the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never 
permitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But  are  you 
sure  you  are  fit  for  a  school  ?  Let  me  examine  you  a  little 
Have  you  been  bred  apprentice  to  the  business  ?' — '  No.'— 


THE  HISTORY  OP  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         363 

'Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys' 
hair  ?' — '  No.' — '  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Have 
you  had  the  small-pox  ?' — '  No.'—'  Then  you  won't  do  for 
a  school.  Can  you  lie  three  in  a  bed  ?' — '  No.' — '  Then 
you  will  never  do  for  a  school.  Have  you  got  a  good 
stomach  ?' — '  Yes.' — '  Then  you  will  by  no  means  do  for  a 
school.  No,  sir  ;  if  you  are  for  a  genteel,  easy  profession, 
bind  yourself  seven  years  as  an  apprentice  to  turn  a  cutler's 
wheel ;  but  avoid  a  school  by  any  means.  Yet  come,' 
continued  he,  '  I  see  you  are  a  lad  of  spirit,  and  some  learn- 
ing :  what  do  you  think  of  commencing  author  like  me  ? 
You  have  read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius 
starving  at  the  trade  ;  at  present  I'll  show  you  forty  very 
dull  fellows  about  town  that  live  by  it  in  opulence  :  all 
honest,  jog-trot  men,  who  go  on  smoothly  and  dully,  and 
write  history  and  politics,  and  are  praised  :  men,  sir,  who, 
had  they  been  bred  cobblers,  would  all  their  lives  have 
only  mended  shoes,  but  never  made  them.' 

"  Finding  that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gentility 
affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I  resolved  to  accept 
his  proposal  ;  and  having  the  highest  respect  for  literature, 
hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of  Grub  Street  with  reverence.  I 
thought  it  my  glory  to  pursue  a  track  which  Dryden  and 
Otway  trod  before  me :  I  considered  the  goddess  of  this 
region  as  the  parent  of  excellence  ;  and,  however  an  inter- 
course with  the  world  might  give  us  good  sense,  the  poverty 
she  entailed  I  supposed  to  be  the  nurse  of  genius.  Big 
with  these  reflections,  I  sat  down  ;  and  finding  that  the 
best  things  remained  to  be  said  on  the  wrong  side,  I  re- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


solved  to  write  a  book  that  should  be  wholly  new  :  I  there- 
fore dressed  up  three  paradoxes  with  some  ingenuity  ;  thev 
were  false,  indeed,  but  they  were  new.  The  jewels  of  truth 
have  been  so  often  imported  by  others,  that  nothing  was 
left  for  me  to  import,  but  some  splendid  things,  that  at  a 
distance  looked  every  bit  as  well.  Witness,  you  powers, 
what  fancied  importance  sat  perched  upon  my  quill  while  I 
was  writing  !  The  whole  learned  world,  T  made  no  doubt, 
would  rise  to  oppose  my  systems  ;  but  then  I  was  prepared 
to  oppose  the  whole  learned  world.  Like  the  porcupine,  I 
sat  self-collected,  with  a  quill  pointed  against  every 
opposer." 

"Well  said,  my  boy,"  cried  I.  "And  what  subject  did 
you  treat  upon  ?  I  hope  you  did  not  pass  over  the  im- 
portance of  monogamy  ?  But  I  interrupt  ;  go  on.  You 
published  your  parodoxes  :  well,  and  what  did  the  learned 
world  say  to  your  paradoxes  ?" 

"  Sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  the  learned  world  said  nothing 
to  my  paradoxes  ;  nothing  at  all,  sir.  Every  man  of  them 
was  employed  in  praising  his  friends  and  himself,  or  con- 
demning his  enemies  ;  and,  unfortunately,  as  I  had  neither, 
1  suffered  the  cruellest  mortification  —  neglect. 

"  As  I  was  meditating  one  day,  in  a  coffee-house,  on  the 
fate  of  my  paradoxes,  a  little  man,  happening  to  enter  the 
room,  placed  himself  in  the  box  before  me  ;  and  after 
some  preliminary  discourse,  finding  me  to  be  a  scholar, 
drew  out  a  bundle  of  proposals,  begging  me  to  subscribe  to 
a  new  edition  he  was  going  to  give  the  world  of  Propertius, 
with  notes.  This  demand  necessarily  produced  a  reply 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         365 

that  I  had  no  money ;  and  that  concession  led  him  to 
inquire  into  the  nature  of  my  expectations.  Finding  that 
my  expectations  were  just  as  great  as  my  purse,  '  I  see,' 
cried  he,  '  you  are  unacquainted  with  the  town :  I'll  teach 
you  a  part  of  it.  Look  at  these  proposals ;  upon  these 
veiy  proposals  I  have  subsisted  very  comfortably  for  twelve 
years.  The  moment  a  nobleman  returns  from  his  travels, 
a  Creolian  arrives  from  Jamaica,  or  a  dowager  from  her 
country  seat,  I  strike  for  a  subscription.  I  first  besiege 
their  hearts  with  flattery,  and  then  pour  in  my  proposals  at 
the  breach.  If  they  subscribe  readily  the  first  time,  I 
renew  my  request  to  beg  a  dedication  fee :  if  they  let  me 
lave  that,  I  smite  them  once  more  for  engraving  their  coat- 
.•>f-arms  at  the  top.  Thus,'  continued  he,  '  I  live  by  vanity, 
and  laugh  at  it.  But,  between  ourselves,  I  am  now  too  well 
known.  I  should  be  glad  to  borrow  your  face  a  bit  A 
nobleman  of  distinction  has  just  returned  from  Italy  :  my 
face  is  familiar  to  his  porter  ;  but  if  you  bring  this  copy  of 
verses,  my  life  for  it,  you  succeed,  and  we  divide  the 
spoil.' " 

"  Bless  us,  George,"  cried  I ;  "  and  is  this  the  employment 
of  poets  now  ?  Do  men  of  their  exalted  talents  thus  stoop 
to  beggary  ?  Can  they  so  far  disgrace  their  calling  as  to 
make  a  vile  traffic  of  praise  for  bread  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  returned  he ;  "a  true  poet  can  never  be  so 
base  ;  for  wherever  there  is  genius  there  is  pride.  The 
creatures  I  now  describe  are  only  beggars  in  rhyme.  The 
real  poet  as  he  bra  VPS  every  hardship  for  fame,  so  is  he 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


equally  a  coward  to  contempt  ;  and  none  but  those  who 
are  unworthy  protection  condescend  to  solicit  it. 

"  Having  a  mind  too  proud  to  stoop  to  such  indignities 
and  yet  a  fortune  too  humble  to  hazard  a  second  attempt 
for  fame,  I  was  now  obliged  to  take  a  middle  course,  and 
write  for  bread  ;  but  I  was  unqualified  for  a  profession  where 
mere  industry  alone  was  to  insure  success.  I  could  not 
suppress  my  lurking  passion  for  applause  ;  but  usually  con- 
sumed that  time  in  efforts  after  excellence  which  takes  up 
but  little  room,  when  it  should  have  been  more  advan- 
tageously employed  in  the  diffusive  productions  of  fruitful 
mediocrity  ;  my  little  piece  would  therefore  come  forth  in 
the  midst  of  periodical  publications,  unnoticed  and  un- 
known. The  public  were  more  importantly  employed  than 
to  observe  the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style,  or  the  harmony 
of  my  periods.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  thrown  off  to 
oblivion.  My  essays  were  buried  among  the  essays  upon 
liberty,  Eastern  tales,  and  cures  for  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog  ; 
while  Philautus,  Philalethes,  Phileleutheros,  and  Philan- 
thropes, all  wrote  better,  because  they  wrote  faster  than  I. 

"  Now,  therefore,  I  began  to  associate  with  none  but  dis- 
appointed authors  like  myself,  who  praised,  deplored,  and 
despised  each  other.  The  satisfaction  we  found  in  ever) 
celebrated  writer's  attempts  was  inversely  as  their  merits. 
I  found  that  no  genius  in  another  could  please  me  :  my 
unfortunate  paradoxes  had  entirely  dried  up  that  source  of 
comfort.  I  could  neither  read  nor  write  with  satisfaction  ; 
for  excellence  in  another  was  my  aversion,  and  writing  was 
my  trade, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         367 

*  In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections,  as  I  was  one 
day  sitting  on  a  bench  in  St.  James's  Park,  a  young  gentle- 
man of  distinction,  who  had  been  my  intimate  acquaint- 
ance at  the  university,  approached  me.  We  saluted  each 
other  with  some  hesitation,  he  almost  ashamed  of  being 
known  to  one  who  made  so  shabby  an  appearance,  and  I 
afraid  of  a  repulse.  But  my  suspicions  soon  vanished,  for 
Ned  Thornhill  was  at  the  bottom  a  very  good-natured 
fellow." 

"  What  did  you  say,  George,"  interrupted  I :  "  Thorn- 
hill  ! — was  not  that  his  name  ?  It  can  certainly  be  no 
other  than  my  landlord." 

"  Bless  me !"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "  is  Mr.  Thornhill  so 
near  a  neighbour  of  yours  ?  He  has  long  been  a  friend  ir 
our  family,  and  we  expect  a  visit  from  him  shortly." 

"  My  friend's  first  care,"  contiriued  my  son,  "  was  to  altei 
my  appearance  by  a  very  fine  suit  of  his  own  clothes,  and 
then  I  was  admitted  to  his  table  upon  the  footing  of  ha! 
friend,  half  underling.  My  business  was  to  attend  him  ai 
auctions,  to  put  him  in  spirits  when  he  sat  for  his  picture', 
to  take  the  left  hand  in  his  chariot  when  not  filled  b\ 
another,  and  to  assist  at  tattering  a  kip,  as  the  phrase  was, 
\vhen  he  had  a  mind  for  a  frolic.  Besides  this,  I  had 
:wenty  other  little  employments  in  the  family.  I  was  t< 
Jo  many  small  things  without  bidding  ;  to  carry  the  cork 
screw ;  to  stand  godfather  to  all  the  butler's  children  ;  to 
sing  when  I  was  bid  ;  to  be  never  out  of  humour ;  always 
to  be  humble ;  and,  if  I  could,  to  be  very  happy. 

"  In  this  honourable  post,  however,  I  was  not  without  a 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


rival.  A  captain  of  marines,  who  was  formed  for  the  place 
by  nature,  opposed  me  in  my  patron's  affections.  His 
mother  had  been  laundress  to  a  man  of  quality,  and  thus 
he  early  acquired  a  taste  for  pimping  and  pedigree.  As 
this  gentleman  made  it  the  study  of  his  life  to  be  acquainted 
with  lords,  though  he  was  dismissed  from  several  for  his 
stupidity,  yet  he  found  many  of  them,  who  were  as  dull  as 
himself,  that  permitted  his  assiduities.  As  flattery  was  his 
trade,  he  practised  it  with  the  easiest  address  imaginable ; 
but  it  came  awkward  and  stiff  from  me  ;  and  as  every  day 
my  patron's  desire  of  flattery  increased,  so  every  hour, 
being  better  acquainted  with  his  defects,  I  became  more 
unwilling  to  give  it.  Thus  I  was  once  more  fairly  going  to 
give  up  the  field  to  the  captain,  when  my  friend  found 
occasion  for  my  assistance.  This  was  nothing  less  than  to 
fight  a  duel  for  him  with  -a  gentleman,  whose  sister  it  was 
pretended  he  had  used  ill :  I  readily  complied  with  his 
request ;  and  though  I  see  you  are  displeased  at  my  con- 
duct, yet,  as  it  was  a  debt  indispensably  due  to  friendship, 
I  could  not  refuse.  I  undertook  the  affair,  disarmed  my 
antagonist,  and  soon  after  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  that 
the  lady  was  only  a  woman  of  the  town,  and  the  fellow  her 
bully,  and  a  sharper.  This  piece  of  service  was  repaid 
with  the  warmest  professions  of  gratitude  ;  but  as  my 
friend  was  to  leave  town  in  a  few  days,  he  knew  no  other 
method  of  serving  me  but  by  recommending  me  to  his 
uncle,  Sir  William  Thornhill,  and  another  nobleman  of 
great  distinction,  who  enjoyed  a  post  under  Government. 
When  he  was  gone,  my  first  care  was  to  carry  his  recom- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         369 

mandatory  letter  to  his  uncle — a  man  whose  character  for 
every  virtue  was  universal,  yet  just  I  was  received  Dy  his 
servants  with  the  most  hospitable  smiles  ;  for  the  looks  of 
the  domestics  ever  transmit  their  master's  benevolence. 
Being  shown  into  a  grand  apartment,  where  Sir  William 
soon  came  to  me,  I  delivered  my  message  and  letter,  which 
he  read,  and,  after  pausing  some  minutes — '  Pray,  sir,'  cried 
he,  '  inform  me  what  you  have  done  for  my  kinsman  to 
deserve  this  warm  recommendation.  But  I  suppose,  sir,  I 
guess  your  merits  ;  you  have  fought  for  him  ;  and  so  you 
would  expect  a  reward  from  me  for  being  the  instrument 
of  his  vices.  I  wish,  sincerely  wish,  that  my  present  refusal 
may  be  some  punishment  for  your  guilt,  but  still  more, 
that  it  may  be  some  inducement  to  your  repentance.'  The 
severity  of  this  rebuke  I  bore  patiently,  because  I  knew  it 
was  just  My  whole  expectations  n^w,  therefore,  lay  in 
my  letter  to  the  great  man.  As  the  aoors  of  the  nobility 
are  almost  ever  beset  with  beggars,  all  ready  to  thrust  in 
some  sly  petition,  I  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  gain  admit- 
tance. However,  after  bribing  the  servants  with  half  my 
worldly  fortune,  I  was  at  last  shown  into  a  spacious  apart- 
ment, my  letter  being  previously  sent  up  for  his  lordship's 
inspection.  During  this  anxious  interval  I  had  full  time  to 
look  around  me.  Everything  was  grand,  and  of  happy 
contrivance ;  the  paintings,  the  furniture,  the  gildings, 
petrified  me  with  awe,  and  raised  my  idea  of  the  owner. 
Ah !  thought  I  to  myself,  how  very  great  must  the  pos- 
sessor of  all  these  things  be,  who  carries  in  his  head  the 
business  of  the  state,  and  whose  house  displays  hail  the 

24 


37<>  THE  VICAtt  Of 


wealth  of  a  kingdom  !  sure  his  genius  must  be  unfathom- 
able !  During  these  awful  reflections  I  heard  a  step  come 
heavily  forward.  Ah,  this  is  the  great  man  himself  !  No, 
it  was  only  a  chambermaid.  Another  foot  was  heard 
soon  after.  This  must  be  he  !  No,  it  was  only  the  great 
man's  valet-de-chambre.  At  last  his  lordship  actually 
made  his  appearance.  '  Are  you,'  cried  he,  '  the  bearer  of 
this  here  letter  ?'  I  answered  with  a  bow.  '  I  learn  by 
this,'  continued  he,  'as  how  that  —  '  But  just  at  that 
instant  a  servant  delivered  him  a  card  ;  and  without  taking 
farther  notice,  he  went  out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  to 
dige»t  my  own  happiness  at  leisure.  I  saw  no  more  of 
him,  till  told  by  a  footman  that  his  lordship  was  going  to 
his  coach  at  the  door.  Down  I  immediately  followed,  and 
joined  my  voice  to  that  of  three  or  four  more,  who  came 
like  me  to  petition  for  favours.  His  lordship,  however, 
went  too  fast  for  us,  and  was  gaining  his  chariot  door  with 
large  strides,  when  I  hallooed  out  to  know  if  I  was  to  have 
any  reply.  He  was  by  this  time  got  in,  and  muttered  an 
answer,  half  of  which  I  only  heard  —  the  other  half  was  lost 
in  the  rattling  of  his  chariot-wheels.  I  stood  for  some  time 
with  my  neck  stretched  out,  in  the  posture  of  one  that  was 
listening  to  catch  the  glorious  sounds,  till,  looking  round, 
me,  I  found  myself  alone  at  his  lordship's  gate. 

"  My  patience,"  continued  my  son,  "  was  now  quite  ex- 
hausted. Stung  with  the  thousand  indignities  I  had  met 
with,  I  was  willing  to  cast  myself  away,  and  only  wanted 
the  gulf  to  receive  me.  I  regarded  myself  as  one  of  those 
vile  things  that  Nature  designed  should  be  thrown  by  into 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         37> 

her  lumber-room,  there  to  perish  in  obscurity.  I  had  still, 
however,  half  a  guinea  left,  and  of  that  I  thought  Fortune 
herself  should  not  deprive  me  ;  but  in  order  to  be  sure  of 
this,  I  was  resolved  to  go  instantly  and  spend  it  while  I 
had  it,  and  then  trust  to  occurrences  for  the  rest.  As  I 
was  going  along  with  this  resolution,  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Crispe's  office  seemed  invitingly  open  to  give  me  a  welcome 
reception.  In  this  office  Mr.  Crispe  kindly  offers  all  his 
majesty's  subjects  a  generous  promise  of  £30  a  year,  for 
which  promise  all  they  give  in  return  is  their  liberty  for 
life,  and  permission  to  let  him  transport  them  to  America 
as  slaves.  I  was  happy  at  finding  a  place  where  I  could 
lose  my  fears  in  desperation,  and  entered  this  cell  (for  it 
had  the  appearance  of  one)  with  the  devotion  of  a  monastic 
Here  I  found  a  number  of  poor  creatures,  all  in  circum- 
stances like  myself,  expecting  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Crispe, 
presenting  a  true  epitome  of  English  impatience.  Each 
untractable  soul  at  variance  with  fortune  wreaked  her 
injuries  on  their  own  hearts  ;  but  Mr.  Crispe  at  last  came 
down,  and  all  our  murmurs  were  hushed.  He  deigned  to 
regard  me  with  an  air  of  peculiar  approbation  ;  and  indeed 
he  was  the  first  man  who,  for  a  month  past,  talked  to  me 
with  smiles.  After  a  few  questions  he  found  I  was  fit  for 
everything  in  the  world.  He  paused  awhile  upon  the 
properest  means  of  providing  for  me ;  and,  slapping  his 
forehead,  as  if  he  had  found  it,  assured  me  that  there  was 
at  that  time  an  embassy  talked  of  from  the  synod  of 
Pennsylvania  to  the  Chickasaw  Indians,  and  that  he  would 
use  his  interests  to  get  me  made  secretary.  I  knew  in  my 


37*  fff£  VICAR  OF 


own  heart  the  fellow  lied,  and  yet  his  promise  gave  me 
pleasure,  there  was  something  so  magnificent  in  the  sound. 
I  fairly,  therefore,  divided  my  half-guinea,  one  half  of 
which  went  to  be  added  to  his  thirty  thousand  pounds,  and 
with  the  other  half  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  next  tavern  to 
be  there  more  happy  than  he. 

"  As  I  was  going  out  with  that  resolution,  I  was  met 
at  the  door  by  the  captain  of  a  ship,  with  whom  I  had 
formerly  some  little  acquaintance,  and  he  agreed  to  be 
my  companion  over  a  bowl  of  punch.  As  I  never  chose  to 
make  a  secret  of  my  circumstances,  he  assured  me  that  I 
was  on  the  very  point  of  ruin,  in  listening  to  the  office- 
keeper's  promises  ;  for  that  he  only  designed  to  sell  me  to 
the  plantations.  '  But,"  continued  he,  '  I  fancy  you  might, 
by  a  much  shorter  voyage,  be  very  easily  put  into  a  genteel 
way  of  bread.  Take  my  advice.  My  ship  sails  to-morrow 
for  Amsterdam  :  what  if  you  go  in  her  as  a  passenger  ?  , 
The  moment  you  land,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  teach  the 
Dutchmen  English,  and  I  warrant  you'll  get  pupils  and 
money  enough.  I  suppose  you  understand  English,'  added 
he,  '  by  this  time,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it.'  I  confidently 
assured  him  of  that  ;  but  expressed  a  doubt  whether  the 
Dutch  would  be  willing  to  learn  English.  He  affirmed, 
with  an  oath,  that  they  were  fond  of  it  to  distraction  ;  and 
upon  that  affirmation  I  agreed  with  his  proposal,  and 
embarked  the  next  day  to  teach  the  Dutch  English  in 
Holland,  The  wind  was  fair,  and  our  voyage  short  ;  and 
after  having  paid  my  passage  with  half  my  moveables  I 
found  myself  fallen  as  from  the  skies,  a  stranger  in  one  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.         373 

the  principal  streets  of  Amsterdam.  In  this  situation  I 
was  unwilling  to  let  any  time  pass  unemployed  in  teaching. 
I  addressed  myself,  therefore,  to  two  or  three  of  those  I 
met,  whose  appearance  seemed  most  promising ;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  make  ourselves  mutually  understood.  It 
was  not  till  this  very  moment  that  I  recollected  that,  in 
order  to  teach  Dutchmen  English,  it  was  necessary  that 
they  should  first  teach  me  Dutch.  How  I  came  to  over- 
look so  obvious  an  objection  is  to  me  amazing  ;  but  certain 
it  is  I  overlooked  it 

"  This  scheme  thus  blown  up,  I  had  some  thoughts  of 
fairly  shipping  back  to  England  again  ;  but,  dropping  into 
company  with  an  Irish  student,  who  was  returning  from 
Louvain,  our  conversation  turning  upon  topics  of  literature 
(for,  by  the  way,  it  may  be  observed  that  I  always  forgot 
the  meanness  of  my  circumstances  when  I  could  converse 
on  such  subjects),  from  him  I  learned  that  there  were  not 
two  men  in  his  whole  university  who  understood  Greek. 
This  amazed  me :  I  instantly  resolved  to  travel  to 
Louvain,  and  there  live  by  teaching  Greek  ;  and  in  this 
design  I  was  heartened  by  my  brother  student,  who 
threw  out  some  hints  that  a  fortune  might  be  got 
by  it. 

"  I  set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every  day 
lessened  the  burden  of  my  moveables,  like  ^Esop  and  his 
basket  of  bread  ;  for  I  paid  for  my  lodgings  to  the  Dutch 
as  I  travelled  on.  When  I  came  to  Louvain  I  was  resolved 
not  to  go  sneaking  to  the  lower  professors,  but  openly 
tendered  my  talents  to  the  principal  himself.  I  went,  had 


374  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

admittance,  and  offered  him  rr.y  service  as  a  master  of  the 
Greek  language,  which  I  had  been  told  was  a  desideratum 
fn  his  university.  The  principal  seemed  at  first  to  doubt 
my  abilities ;  but  of  these  I  offered  to  convince  him,  by 
turning  a  part  of  any  Greek  author  he  should  fix  upon  into 
Latin.  Finding  me  perfectly  earnest  in  my  proposal,  he 
addressed  me  thus : — '  You  see  me,  young  man :  I  never 
learned  Greek,  and  I  don't  find  that  I  ever  missed  it 
I  have  had  a  doctor's  cap  and  gown  without  Greek ;  I 
have  ten  thousand  florins  a  year  without  Greek  ;  I  eat 
heartily  without  Greek ;  and,  in  short,'  continued  he, 
'as  I  don't  know  Greek,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  good 
in  it.' 

44 1  was  now  too  far  from  home  to  think  of  returning, 
so  I  resolved  to  go  forward.  I  had  some  knowledge  of 
music,  with  a  tolerable  voice :  I  now  turned  what  was 
once  my  amusement  into  a  present  means  of  subsistence. 
I  passed  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and 
among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry ;  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to 
their  wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant's  house 
towards  nightfall  I  played  one  of  my  most  merry  tunes, 
and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence 
for  the  next  day.  I  once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for 
people  of  fashion ;  but  they  always  thought  my  perform- 
ance odious,  and  never  rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle. 
This  was  to  me  the  more  extraordinary,  as,  whenever  I 
used  in  better  days  to  play  for  company,  when  playing 
was  my  amusement,  my  music  never  failed  to  throw  them 


TffE  HISTORY  Of  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.          375 

into  raptures,  and  the  ladies  especially ;  but  as  it  was  now 
my  only  means,  it  was  received  with  contempt ;  —  a  proof 
how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate  those  talents  by  which 
a  man  is  supported. 

"  In  this  manner  I  proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no  design 
but  just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  go  forward.  The 
people  of  Paris  are  much  fonder  of  strangers  that  have 
money  than  of  those  who  have  wit :  as  I  could  not  boast 
much  of  either,  I  was  no  great  favourite.  After  walking 
about  the  town  four  or  five  days,  and  seeing  the  out- 
sides  of  the  best  houses,  I  was  preparing  to  leave  this 
retreat  of  venal  hospitality  ;  when,  passing  through  one 
of  the  principal  streets,  whom  should  I  meet  but  our 
cousin,  to  whom  you  first  recommended  me !  This  meet- 
ing was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I  believe  not  displeasing 
to  him.  He  inquired  into  the  nature  of  my  journey  to 
Paris  ;  and  informed  me  of  his  own  business  there,  which 
was  to  collect  pictures,  medals,  intaglios,  and  antiques  of 
all  kinds,  for  a  gentleman  in  London,  who  had  just  stepped 
into  taste  and  a  large  fortune.  I  was  the  more  surprised 
at  seeing  our  cousin  pitched  upon  for  this  office,  as  he  him- 
self had  often  assured  me  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 
Upon  asking  how  he  had  been  taught  the  art  of  a  cognoscente 
so  very  suddenly,  he  assured  me  that  nothing  was  more 
easy :  the  whole  secret  consisted  in  a  strict  adherence  to  two 
rules — the  one,  always  to  observe  that  the  picture  might 
have  been  better  if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains  ; 
and  the  other,  to  praise  the  works  of  Pietro  Perugino. 
1  But/  says  he,  '  as  I  once  taught  you  how  to  be  an  authoi 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


in  London,  I'll  now  undertake  to  instruct  you  in  the  art  of 
picture-buying  in  Paris.' 

"  With  this  proposal  I  very  readily  closed,  as  it  was 
living,  and  now  all  my  ambition  was  to  live.  I  went, 
therefore,  to  his  lodgings,  improving  my  dress  by  his 
assistance;  and,  after  some  time,  accompanied  him  to 
auctions  of  pictures,  where  the  English  gentry  were  ex- 
pected to  be  purchasers.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  with 
his  intimacy  with  people  of  the  best  fashion,  who  referred 
themselves  to  his  judgment  upon  every  picture  or  medal, 
as  an  unerring  standard  of  taste.  He  made  very  good  use 
of  my  assistance  upon  these  occasions  ;  for,  when  asked  his 
opinion,  he  would  gravely  take  me  aside,  and  ask  mine, 
shrug,  look  wise,  return,  and  assure  the  company  that  he 
could  give  no  opinion  upon  an  affair  of  so  much  import- 
ance. 

"  Yet  there  was  sometimes  an  occasion  for  a  more  sup- 
ported assurance.  I  remember  to  have  seen  him,  after 
giving  his  opinion  that  the  colouring  of  a  picture  was  not 
mellow  enough,  very  deliberately  take  a  brush  with  brown 
varnish,  that  was  accidentally  by,  and  rub  it  over  the  piece 
with  great  composure  before  all  the  company,  and  then  ask 
if  he  had  not  improved  the  tints.  • 

"  When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Paris,  he  left 
me  strongly  recommended  to  several  men  of  distinction, 
as  a  person  very  proper  for  a  travelling  tutor  ;  and  after 
some  time  I  was  employed  in  that  capacity  by  a  gentleman 
who  brought  his  ward  to  Paris,  in  order  to  set  him  forward 
on  his  tour  through  Europe.  I  was  to  be  the  young  gentle- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.        377 

man's  governor,  but  with  a  proviso  that  he  should  always 
govern  himself.  My  pupil,  in  fact,  understood  the  art  of 
guiding  in  money  concerns  much  better  than  I.  He  was 
heir  to  a  fortune  of  about  two  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West  Indies ;  and  his  guardians, 
to  qualify  him  for  the  management  of  it,  had  bound  him 
apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice  was  his  prevailing 
passion:  all  his  questions  on  the  road  where,  How  much 
money  might  be  saved  ?  which  was  the  least  expensive 
course  of  travelling?  whether  anything  could  be  bought 
that  would  turn  to  account  when  disposed  of  again  in 
London  ? 

"  Such  curiosities  on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for 
nothing  he  was  ready  enough  to  look  at  ;  but  if  the  sight 
of  them  was  to  be  paid  for,  he  usually  asserted  that  he  had 
been  told  they  were  not  worth  seeing.  He  never  paid  a 
bill,  that  he  would  not  observe  how  amazingly  expensive 
travelling  was ;  and  all  this  though  he  was  not  yet  twenty- 
one.  When  arrived  at  Leghorn,  as  we  took  a  walk  to  look 
at  the  port  and  shipping,  he  inquired  the  expense  of  the 
passage  by  sea  home  to  England.  This  he  was  informed 
was  but  a  trifle  compared  to  his  returning  by  land  :  he 
was  therefore  unable  to  withstand  the  temptation  ;  so, 
paying  me  the  small  part  of  my  salary  that  was  due,  he 
took  leave,  and  embarked,  with  only  one  attendant,  for 
London. 

"  I  now,  therefore,  was  left  once  more  upon  the  world  at 
large ;  but  then  it  was  a  thing  I  was  used  to.  However, 
my  skill  in  music  could  avail  me  nothing  in  a  country 


378  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

where  every  peasant  was  a  better  musician  than  I  ;  but  by 
this  time  I  had  acquired  another  talent,  which  answered 
my  purpose  as  well,  and  this  was  a  skill  in  disputation.  In 
all  the  foreign  universities  and  convents  there  are,  upon 
certain  days,  philosophical  theses  maintained  against  every 
adventitious  disputant ;  for  which,  if  the  champion  opposes 
with  any  dexterity,  he  can  claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a 
dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one  night.  In  this  manner,  there- 
fore, I  fought  my  way  towards  England  ;  walked  along 
from  city  to  city;  examined  mankind  more  nearly;  and,  if 
I  may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the  picture.  My 
remarks,  however,  are  but  few:  I  found  that  monarchy 
was  the  best  government  for  the  poor  to  live  in,  and 
commonwealths  for  the  rich  :  I  found  that  riches  in  general 
were  in  every  country  another  name  for  freedom  ;  and  that 
no  man  is  so  fond  of  liberty  himself  as  not  to  be  desirous 
of  subjecting  the  will  of  some  individuals  in  society  to 
his  own. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  England  I  resolved  to  pay  my 
respects  first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as  a  volunteer  in 
the  first  expedition  that  was  going  forward  ;  but,  on  my 
journey  down,  my  resolutions  were  changed  by  meeting  an 
old  acquaintance,  who  I  found  belonged  to  a  company  of 
comedians,  that  were  going  to  make  a  summer  campaign 
in  the  country.  The  company  seemed  not  much  to  dis- 
approve of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all,  however, 
apprised  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at  which  I 
aimed  ;  that  the  public  was  a  many-headed  monster,  and 
that  only  such  as  had  very  good  heads  could  please  it ; 


THE  HKTORY  OF  A  PHILOSOPHIC  VAGABOND.          379 

'that  acting  was  not  to  be  learned  in  a  day ;  and  that, 
without  some  traditional  shrugs,  which  had  been  on  the 
stage,  and  only  on  the  stage,  these  hundred  years,  I  could 
never  pretend  to  please.  The  next  difficulty  was  in  fitting 
me  with  parts,  as  almost  every  character  was  in  keeping. 
I  was  driven  for  some  time  from  one  character  to  another, 
till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed  upon,  which  the  presence 
of  the  present  company  has  happily  hindered  me  from 
acting." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THK    SHORT    CONTINUANCE    OF  FRIENDSHIP  AMONG   THE    VICIOUS, 
WHICH   IS  COEVAL  ONLY  WITH  MUTUAL  SATISFACTION. 

|  Y  son's  account  was  too  long  to  be  delivered  at 
once  ;  the  first  part  of  it  was  begun  that  night, 
and  he  was  concluding  the  rest  after  dinner  the 
next  day,  when  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill's  equipage  at  the  door  seemed  to  make  a  pause  in  the 
general  satisfaction. 

The  butler,  who  was  now  become  my  friend  in  the 
family,  informed  me,  with  a  whisper,  that  the  squire  had 
already  made  some  overtures  to  Miss  Wilmot,  and  that 
her  aunt  and  uncle  seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match. 
Upon  Mr.  Thornhill's  entering,  he  seemed,  at  seeing  my 
son  and  me,  to  start  back ;  but  I  readily  imputed  that  to 
surprise,  and  not  displeasure.  However,  upon  our  ad- 
vancing to  salute  him,  he  returned  our  greeting  with  the 
most  apparent  candour ;  and,  after  a  short  time,  his 
presence  seemed  only  to  increase  the  general  good 
humour. 


FRIENDSHIP  AMONG  THE  VICIOUS.  381 

After  tea  he  called  me  aside  to  inquire  after  my 
daughter  ;  but  upon  my  informing  him  that  my  inquiry 
was  unsuccessful,  he  seemed  greatly  surprised  ;  adding  that 
he  had  been  since  frequently  at  my  house,  in  order  to  com- 
fort the  rest  of  the  family,  whom  he  left  perfectly  well. 
He  then  asked  if  I  had  communicated  her  misfortune  to 
Miss  Wilmot,  or  my  son ;  and  upon  my  replying  that  I 
had  not  told  them  as  yet,  he  greatly  approved  my  pru< 
dence  and  precaution,  desiring  me  by  all  means  to  keep  it 
a  secret ;  "  for  at  best,"  cried  he,  "  it  is  but  divulging 
one's  own  infamy  ;  and  perhaps  Miss  Livy  may  not  be  so 
guilty  as  we  all  imagine."  We  were  here  interrupted  by  a 
servant,  who  came  to  ask  the  squire  in  to  stand  up  at 
country  dances ;  so  that  he  left  me  quite  pleased  with  the 
interest  he  seemed  to  take  in  my  concerns.  His  addresses, 
however,  to  Miss  Wilmot  were  too  obvious  to  be  mistaken  ; 
and  yet  she  seemed  not  perfectly  pleased,  but  bore  them 
rather  in  compliance  to  the  will  of  her  aunt  than  from  real 
inclination.  I  had  even  the  satisfaction  to  see  her  lavish 
some  kind  looks  upon  my  unfortunate  son,  which  the 
other  could  neither  extort  by  his  fortune  nor  assiduity. 
Mr.  Thornhill's  seeming  composure,  however,  not  a  little 
surprised  me.  We  had  now  continued  here  a  week,  at 
the  pressing  instances  of  Mr.  Arnold  ;  but  each  day,  the 
more  tenderness  Miss  Wilmot  showed  my  son,  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill's  friendship  seemed  proportionably  to  increase  for 
him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  assurances  of 
using  his  interest  to  serve  the  family  ;   bnt  now  his  gene 


THE   VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


rosity  was  net  confined  to  promises  alone.  The  morning  1 
designed  for  my  departure,  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  me,  with 
looks  of  real  pleasure,  to  inform  me  of  a  piece  of  service 
he  had  done  for  his  friend  George.  This  was  nothing  less 
than  his  having  procured  him  an  ensign's  commission  in 
one  of  the  regiments  that  were  going  to  the  West  Indies, 
for  which  he  had  promised  but  one  hundred  pounds,  his 
interest  being  sufficient  to  get  an  abatement  of  the  other 
two : — "  As  for  this  trifling  piece  of  service,"  continued  the 
young  gentleman,  "  I  desire  no  other  reward  but  the  plea- 
sure of  having  served  my  friend  ;  and  as  for  the  hundred 
pounds  to.be  paid,  if  you  are  unable  to  raise  it  yourselves, 
I  will  advance  it,  and  you  shall  repay  me  at  your  leisure." 
This  was  a  favour  we  wanted  words  to  express  our  sense  of: 
I  readily,  therefore,  gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  tes- 
tified as  much  gratitude  as  if  I  never  intended  to  pay. 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day,  to  secure 
his  commission  in  pursuance  of  his  generous  patron's 
directions,  who  judged  it  highly  expedient  to  use  despatch, 
lest,  in  the  meantime,  another  should  step  in  with  more 
advantageous  proposals.  The  next  morning,  therefore, 
our  young  soldier  was  early  prepared  for  his  departure, 
and  seemed  the  only  person  among  us  that  was  not 
affected  by  it  Neither  the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was 
going  to  encounter,  nor  the  friends  and  mistress  (for  Miss 
Wilmot  actually  loved  him)  he  was  leaving  behind,  any 
way  damped  his  spirits.  After  he  had  taken  leave  of  the 
rest  of  the  company,  I  gave  him  all  that  I  had — my 
blessing.  "  And  now,  my  boy,"  cried  I,  "  thou  art  going 


FRIENDSHIP  AMONG  THE  VICIOUS.  383 

to  fight  for  thy  country :  remember  how  thy  brave  grand- 
father fought  for  his  sacred  king,  when  loyalty  among 
Britons  was  a  virtue.  Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all 
but  his  misfortunes — if  it  was  a  misfortune  to  die  with 
Lord  Falkland.  Go,  my  boy;  and  if  you  fall,  though 
distant,  exposed,  and  unwept  by  those  that  love  you,  the 
most  precious  tears  are  those  with  which  Heaven  bedews 
the  unburied  head  of  a  soldier." 

The  next  morning  I  took  leave  of  the  good  family  that 
had  been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so  long,  not  without 
several  expressions  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Thornhill  for  his 
late  bounty.  I  left  them  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that 
happiness  which  affluence  and  good  breeding  procure,  and 
returned  towards  home,  despairing  of  ever  finding  my 
daughter  more,  but  sending  a  sigh  to  Heaven  to  spare  and 
forgive  her.  I  was  now  come  within  about  twenty  miles  of 
home,  having  hired  a  horse  to  carry  me,  as  I  was  yet  but 
weak ;  and  comforted  myself  with  the  hopes  of  soon  seeing 
all  I  held  dearest  upon  earth.  But  the  night  coming  on,  I 
put  up  at  a  little  public-house  by  the  roadside,  and  asked 
for  the  landlord's  company  over  a  pint  of  wine.  We  sat 
beside  his  kitchen  fire,  which  was  the  best  room  in  the 
i.ouse,  and  chatted  on  politics  and  the  news  of  the  country. 
We  happened,  among  other  topics,  to  talk  of  young  squire 
Thornhill,  who,  the  host  assured  me,  was  hated  as  much  as 
his  uncle,  Sir  William,  who  sometimes  came  down  to  the 
country,  was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe  that  he  made 
it  his  whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters  of  such  as 
received  him  to  their  houses,  and  alter  a  fortnight  or  three 


184  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

weeks'  possession,  turned  them  out  unrewarded  and  aban- 
doned to  the  world.  As  we  continued  our  discourse  in 
this  manner,  his  wife,  who  had  been  out  to  get  change, 
returned,  and  perceiving  that  her  husband  was  enjoying  a 
pleasure  in  which  she  was  not  a  sharer,  she  asked  him  in 
an  angry  tone  what  he  did  there ;  to  which  he  only 
replied  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her  health.  "  Mr. 
Symonds,"  cried  she,  "you  use  me  very  ill,  and  I'll  bear  it 
no  longer.  Here  three  parts  of  the  business  is  left  for  me 
to  do,  and  the  fourth  left  unfinished,  while  you  do  nothing 
but  soak  with  the  guests  all  day  long ;  whereas,  if  a  spoon- 
ful of  liquor  were  to  cure  me  of  a  fever,  I  never  touch  a 
drop."  I  now  found  vvhat  she  would  be  at,  and  imme- 
diately poured  out  a  glass,  which  she  received  with  a 
courtesy,  and  drinking  towards  my  good  health,  "  Sir," 
resumed  she,  "  it  is  not  so  much  for  the  value  of  the  liquor 
I  am  angry,  but  one  cannot  help  it  when  the  house  is 
going  out  of  the  windows.  If  the  customers  or  guests  are 
to  be  dunned,  all  the  burden  lies  upon  my  back ;  he'd  as 
lief  eat  that  glass  as  budge  after  them  himself.  There, 
now,  above  stairs  we  have  a  young  woman  who  has  come 
to  take  up  her  lodgings  here,  and  I  don't  believe  she  ha.*- 
got  any  money,  by  her  over-civility.  I  am  certain  she  is 
very  slow  of  payment,  and  I  wish  she  were  put  in  mind  of 
,t." — "What  signifies  minding  her?"  cried  the  host;  "if 
she  be  slow,  she  is  sure." — "  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  tht 
wife ;  "  but  I  know  that  I  am  sure  she  has  been  here  a 
fortnight,  and  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  cross  of  he- 
money.'1 — "  I  suppose,  my  dear,"  cried  he,  "we  shall  have 


Tff£  VICIOUS.  385 


it  all  in  a  lump."  —  "  In  a  lump  ?"  cried  the  other  :  "  I  hope 
«ve  may  get  it  any  way  ;  and  that  I  am  resolved  we  will 
this  very  night,  or  out  she  tramps,  bag  and  baggage."  — 
"  Consider,  my  dear,"  cried  the  husband,  "  she  is  a  gentle- 
woman, and  deserves  more  respect."  —  "  As  for  the  matter 
of  that,"  returned  the  hostess,  "  gentle  or  simple,  out  she 
shall  pack  with  a  sussarara.  Gentry  may  be  good  things 
where  they  take  ;  but  for  my  part  I  never  saw  much  good 
of  them  at  the  sign  of  the  Harrow."  Thus  saying,  she  ran 
up  a  narrow  flight  of  stairs  that  went  from  the  kitchen  to  a 
room  overhead,  and  I  soon  perceived,  by  the  loudness  of 
her  voice  and  the  bitterness  of  her  reproaches,  that  no 
money  was  to  be  had  from  her  lodger.  I  could  hear  the 
remonstrances  very  distinctly  :  "  Out,  I  say,  pack  out  this 
moment  !  tramp,  thou  infamous  strumpet,  or  I'll  give  thee 
a  mark  thou  won't  be  the  better  for  these  three  months. 
What  !  you  trumpery,  to  come  and  take  up  an  honest 
house,  without  cross  or  coin  to  bless  yourself  with  !  Come 
along,  I  say."  —  "  Oh,  dear  madam,"  cried  the  stranger, 
"  pity  me,  pity  a  poor  abandoned  creature  for  one  night, 
and  death  will  soon  do  the  rest."  I  instantly  knew  the 
voice  of  my  poor  ruined  child,  Olivia.  I  flew  to  her  rescue, 
while  the  woman  was  dragging  her  along  by  the  hair,  and 
I  caught  the  dear  forlorn  wretch  in  my  arms.  "  Welcome, 
any  way  welcome,  my  dearest  lost  one,  my  treasure,  to 
your  poor  old  father's  bosom.  Though  the  vicious  forsake 
thee,  there  is  yet  one  in  the  world  that  will  never  forsake 
thee  ;  though  thou  hast  ten  thousand  crimes  to  answer  for, 

he  will  forgive  them  all."  —  "  O  my  own  dear  "  —  for  minutei 

24 


THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEFIELD. 


she  could  say  no  more,  —  "  my  own  dearest,  good  papa  ; 
Could  angels  be  kinder  ?  How  do  I  deserve  so  much  ? 
The  villain,  I  hate  him  ;  and  myself  to  be  a  reproach  to  so 
much  goodness.  You  can't  forgive  me  ;  I  know  you 
cannot."  —  "Yes,  my  child,  from  my  heart  I  do  forgive 
thee  :  only  repent,  and  we  both  shall  yet  be  happy.  We 
shall  see  many  pleasant  days  yet,  my  Olivia."  —  "  Ah  ! 
never,  sir,  never.  The  rest  of  my  wretched  life  must  be 
infamy  abroad  and  shame  at  home.  But,  alas  !  papa,  you 
look  much  paler  than  you  used  to  do.  Could  such  a  thing  as 
I  am  give  you  so  much  uneasiness  ?  Surely  you  have  toa 
much  wisdom  to  take  the  miseries  of  my  guilt  upon  your- 
self !"  —  "  Our  wisdom,  young  woman  -  "  replied  I.  — 
"  Ah,  why  so  cold  a  name,  papa  ?"  cried  she  :  "  this  is  the 
first  time  you  ever  called  me  by  so  cold  a  name."  —  "  I  ask 
pardon,  my  darling,"  returned  I  ;  "  but  I  was  going  to 
observe  wisdom  makes  but  a  slow  defence  against  trouble, 
though  at  last  a  sure  one." 

The  landlady  now  returned,  to  know  if  we  did  not 
choose  a  more  genteel  apartment  ;  to  which  assenting,  we 
were  shown  to  a  room  where  we  could  converse  more  freely. 
After  we  had  talked  ourselves  into  some  degree  of  tran- 
quillity, I  could  not  avoid  desiring  some  account  of  the 
gradations  that  led  to  her  present  wretched  situatioa 
"  That  villain,  sir,"  said  she,  "  from  the  first  day  of  oui 
meeting,  made  me  honourable,  though  private  pro- 
posals." 

"Villain  indeed,"  cried  I  ;  "and  yet  it  in  some  measure 
surprises  me  how  a  person  of  Mr.  Burchell's  good  sense  and 


FRIENDSHIP  AMONG  THE  VICIOUS.  &> 

seeming  honour  could  be  guilty  of  such  deliberate  base- 
ness, and  thus  step  into  a  family  to  undo  it." 

"My  dear  papa,"  returned  my  daughter,  "you  labour 
under  a  strange  mistake.  Mr.  Burchell  never  attempted 
to  deceive  me  :  instead  of  that,  he  took  every  opportunity 
of  privately  admonishing  me  against  the  artifices  of  Mr. 
Thornhill,  who,  I  now  find,  was  even  worse  than  he  repre- 
sented him."—"  Mr.  Thornhill !"  interrupted  I ;  "  can  it 
be?" — "Yes,  sir,"  returned  she;  "it  was  Mr.  Thornhill 
who  seduced  me,  who  employed  the  two  ladies,  as  he 
called  them,  but  who,  in  fact,  "were  abandoned  women  of 
the  town,  without  breeding  or  pity,  to  decoy  us  up  to 
London.  Their  artifices,  you  may  remember,  would  have 
certainly  succeeded  but  for  Mr.  Burchell's  letter,  who 
directed  those  reproaches  at  them,  which  we  all  applied  to 
ourselves.  How  he  came  to  have  so  much  influence  as 
to  defeat  their  intentions  still  remains  a  secret  to  me  ;  but 
I  am  convinced  he  was  ever  our  warmest,  sincerest  friend." 
"  You  amaze  me,  my  dear,"  cried  I ;  "  but  now  1  find 
my  first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  baseness  were  too 
well  grounded :  but  he  can  triumph  in  security,  for  he 
is  rich  and  we  are  poor.  But  tell  me,  my  child  ;  sure  it 
was  no  small  temptation  that  could  thus  obliterate  all 
the  impressions  of  such  an  education,  and  so  virtuous  a 
disposition,  as  thine !" 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  he  owes  all  his  triumph  to 
the  desire  I  had  of  making  him,  and  not  myself,  happy. 
I  knew  that  the  ceremony  of  our  marriage,  which  was 
privately  performed  by  a  Popish  priest,  was  no  way 


3S3  THE  VICAtt  Of  WAKEFIELD. 

binding,  and  that  I  had  nothing  to  trust  to  but  his 
honour." 

"  What !"  interrupted  I,  "  and  were  you  indeed  married 
by  a  priest  in  orders  ?" 

M  Indeed,  sir,  we  were,"  replied  she,  "  though  we  were 
both  sworn  to  conceal  his  name." 

*  Why,  then,  my  child,  come  to  my  arms  again  ;  and  now 
you  are  a  thousand  times  more  welcome  than  before; 
for  you  are  his  wife  to  all  intents  and  purposes ;  nor  can 
all  the  laws  of  man,  though  written  upon  tables  of  ada- 
mant, lessen  the  force  of  that  sacred  connexion." 

"  Alas  !  papa,"  replied  she,  "  you  are  but  little  acquainted 
with  his  villanies :  he  has  been  married  already,  by  the 
same  priest,  to  six  or  eight  wives  more,  whom,  like  me,  he 
has  deceived  and  abandoned." 

"  Has  he  so  ?"  cried  I ;  "  then  we  must  hang  the  priest, 
and  you  shall  inform  against  him  to-morrow." 

"  But,  sir,"  returned  she,  "  will  that  be  right,  when  I  am 
sworn  to  secrecy  ?" 

"My  dear,"  I  replied,  "if  you  have  made  such  a 
promise,  I  cannot,  nor  will  I,  tempt  you  to  break  it. 
Even  though  it  may  benefit  the  public,  you  must  not 
inform  against  him.  In  all  human  institutions  a  smaller 
evil  is  allowed  to  procure  a  greater  good ;  as,  in  politics, 
a  province  may  be  given  away  to  secure  a  kingdom  ;  in 
medicine,  a  limb  may  be  lopped  off  to  preserve  the  body ; 
but  in  religion  the  law  is  written,  and  inflexible,  never  to 
do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is  right ;  for  otherwise, 
if  we  commit  a  smaller  evil  to  procure  a  greater  good. 


FRIENDSHIP  AMONG  THE  VICIOUS.  389 

ceixain  guilt,  would  be  thus  incurred,  in  expectation  of 
contingent  advantage,  and  though  the  advantage  should 
certainly  follow,  yet  the  interval  between  commission  and 
advantage,  which  is  allowed  to  be  guilty,  may  be  that  in 
which  we  are  called  away  to  answer  for  the  things  we  have 
done,  and  the  volume  of  human  actions  is  closed  for  ever. 
But  I  interrupt  you,  my  dear  :  go  x>n." 

"  The  very  next  morning,"  continued  she,  "  I  found 
what  little  expectation  I  was  to  have  from  his  sincerity. 
That  very  morning  he  introduced  me  to  two  unhappy 
women  more,  whom,  like  me,  he  had  deceived,  but  who 
lived  in  contented  prostitution.  I  loved  him  too  tenderly 
to  bear  such  rivals  in  his  affections,  and  strove  to  forget 
my  infamy  in  a  tumult  of  pleasures.  With  this  view  I 
danced,  dressed,  and  talked ;  but  still  was  unhappy.  The 
gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me  every  moment  of  the 
power  of  my  charms,  and  this  only  contributed  to  increase 
my  melancholy,  as  I  had  thrown  all  their  power  quite 
Away.  Thus  each  day  I  grew  more  pensive,  and  he  more 
insolent,  till  at  last  the  monster  had  the  assurance  to  offer 
me  to  a  young  baronet  of  his  acquaintance.  Need  I 
describe,  sir,  how  his  ingratitude  stung  me  ?  My  answer 
to  this  proposal  was  almost  madness.  I  desired  to  part 
As  I  was  going  he  offered  me  a  purse;  but  I  flung  it  at 
him  with  indignation,  and  burst  from  him  in  a  rage,  that 
for  a  while  kept  me  insensible  of  the  miseries  of  my  situ- 
ation ;  but  I  soon  looked  round  me,  and  saw  myself  a  vile, 
abject,  guilty  thing,  without  one  friend  in  the  world  to 
apply  to. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1EL&. 


"Just  in  that  interval,  a  stage-coach  happening  to  pass 
by,  I  took  a  place,  it  being  my  only  aim  to  be  driven 
at  a  distance  from  a  wretch  I  despised  and  detested. 
I  was  set  down  here,  where,  since  my  arrival,  my  own 
anxiety  and  this  woman's  unkindness  have  been  my  only 
companions.  The  hours  of  pleasure  that  I  have  passed 
with  my  mamma  and  sister  now  grow  painful  to  me  :  their 
sorrows  are  much  ;  but  mine  are  greater  than  theirs,  for 
nine  are  mixed  with  guilt  and  infamy." 

"  Have  patience,  my  child,"  cried  I,  "  and  I  hope  things 
will  yet  be  better.  Take  some  repose  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow I'll  carry  you  home  to  your  mother  and  the  rest 
of  the  family,  from  whom  you  will  receive  a  kind  recep- 
tion. Poor  woman  !  this  has  gone  to  her  heart ;  but  she 
loves  you  still,  Olivia,  and  will  forget  it" 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


OFFENCES    ARE    EASILY    PARDONED    WHERE    THERE    IS    LOVE    AT 

BOTTOM. 

HE  next  morning  I  took  my  daughter  behind 
me,  and  set  out  on  my  return  home.  As  we 
travelled  along,  I  strove  by  every  persuasion 
to  calm  her  sorrows  and  fears,  and  to  arm  her 
with  resolution  to  bear  the  presence  of  her  offended  mother. 
I  took  every  opportunity,  from  the  prospect  of  a  fine 
country  through  which  we  passed,  to  observe  how  much 
kinder  Heaven  was  to  us  than  we  to  each  other ;  and  that 
the  misfortunes  of  nature's  making  were  but  very  few. 
I  assured  her  that  she  should  never  perceive  any  change 
in  my  affections ;  and  that  during  my  life,  which  yet  might 
be  long,  she  might  depend  upon  a  guardian  and  an  in- 
structor. I  armed  her  against  the  censure  of  the  world  ; 
showed  her  that  books  were  sweet,  unreproaching  com- 
panions to  the  miserable ;  and  that,  if  they  could  not 
bring  us  to  enjoy  life,  they  would  at  least  teach  us  to 
endure  it 


Tft£  VICAR  Of 


The  hired  horse  that  we  rode  was  to  be  put  up  that 
night  at  the  inn  by  the  way,  within  about  five  miles  from 
my  house  ;  and  as  I  was  willing  to  prepare  my  family  for 
my  daughter's  reception,  I  determined  to  leave  her  that 
night  at  the  inn,  and  to  return  for  her,  accompanied  by  my 
daughter  Sophia,  early  the  next  morning.  It  was  night 
before  we  reached  our  appointed  stage  ;  however,  after 
seeing  her  provided  with  a  decent  apartment,  and  having 
ordered  the  hostess  to  prepare  proper  refreshments,  I 
kissed  her,  and  proceeded  towards  home.  And  now  my 
heart  caught  new  sensations  of  pleasure  the  nearer  I 
approached  that  peaceful  mansion  :  as  a  bird  that  had 
been  frightened  from  its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my 
haste,  and  hovered  round  my  little  fireside  with  all  the 
rapture  of  expectation.  I  called  up  the  many  fond  things 
I  had  to  say,  and  anticipated  the  welcome  I  was  to  receive. 
I  already  felt  my  wife's  tender  embrace,  and  smiled  at  the 
joy  of  my  little  ones.  As  I  walked  but  slowly,  the  night 
waned  apace  ;  the  labourers  of  the  day  were  all  retired  to 
rest  ;  the  lights  were  out  in  every  cottage  ;  no  sounds  were 
heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock  and  the  deep-mouthed 
watch-dog  at  hollow  distance.  I  approached  my  little 
abode  of  pleasure,  and  before  I  was  within  a  furlong 
of  the  place  our  honest  mastiff  came  running  to  wel- 
come me. 

It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I  came  to  knock  at  my 
door.  All  was  still  and  silent  My  heart  dilated  with 
unutterable  happiness  ;  when,  to  my  amazement,  I  saw  the 
house  bursting  out  into  a  blaze  of  fire,  and  every  aperture 


OFFENCES  EASILY  PARDONED.  393 

red  with  conflagration.  I  gave  a  loud  convulsive  outcry, 
and  fell  upon  the  pavement  insensible.  This  alarmed  my 
son,  who  had  till  this  been  asleep ;  and  he,  perceiving  the 
flame,  instantly  awaked  my  wife  and  daughter :  and  all 
running  out,  naked  and  wild  with  apprehension,  recalled 
me  to  life  with  their  anguish  :  but  it  was  only  to  objects  of 
new  terror,  for  the  flames  had  by  this  time  caught  the 
roof  of  our  dwelling,  part  after  part  continuing  to  fall  in, 
while  the  family  stood  with  silent  agony  looking  on,  as 
if  they  enjoyed  the  blaze.  I  gazed  upon  them  and  upon 
it  by  turns,  and  then  looked  round  me  for  my  two  little 
ones;  but  they  were  not  to  be  seen.  "O  misery!  where," 
cried  I,  "  where  are  my  little  ones  ?" — "  They  are  burnt 
to  death  in  the  flames,"  said  my  wife,  calmly,  "  and  I  will 
die  with  them." 

That  moment  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  wfthin,  who 
were  just  awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing  could  have 
stopped  me.  "  Where,  where  are  my  children  ?"  cried  I, 
rushing  through  the  flames,  and  bursting  the  door  of  the 
chamber  in  which  they  were  confined  :  "  where  are  my 
little  ones  ?" — "  Here,  dear  papa,  here  we  are  !"  cried  they 
together,  while  the  flames  were  just  catching  the  bed 
where  they  lay.  I  caught  them  both  in  my  arms,  and 
conveyed  them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  possible,  while 
just  as  I  was  going  out  the  roof  sunk  in.  "  Now,"  cried  I, 
holding  up  my  children,  "  now  let  the  flames  burn  on,  and 
all  my  possessions  perish  ;  here  they  are  ;  I  have  saved 
my  treasures  :  here,  my  dearest,  here  are  our  treasures, 
and  we  shall  be  happy."  We  kissed  our  little  darlings  a 


394  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

thousand  times :  they  clasped  us  round  the  neck,  and 
seemed  to  share  our  transports  ;  while  their  mother  laughed 
and  wept  by  turns. 

I  now  stood  a  calm  spectator  of  the  flames,  and  after 
some  time  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to  the  shoulder 
was  scorched  in  a  terrible  manner ;  it  was  therefore  out 
of  my  power   to  give   my  son  any  assistance,  either    in 
attempting  to  save  our  goods,  or    preventing  the   flames 
spreading  to  our  corn.     By  this  time  the  neighbours  were 
alarmed,   and    came   running  to   our   assistance ;   but   all 
they  could    do   was   to   stand,  like  us,  spectators  of  the 
calamity.     My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes  I  had 
reserved   for  my  daughters'   fortunes,   were   entirely  con- 
sumed, except  a  box  with  some  papers,  that  stood  in  the 
kitchen,  and  two  or  three  things  more  of  little  consequence, 
which    my   son    brought    away    in   the   beginning.      The 
neighbours    contributed,    however,   what    they    could    to 
lighten   our  distress:   they   brought   us   clothes,  and    fur- 
nished one  of  our  outhouses  with  kitchen  utensils ;  so  that 
by  daylight  we  had  another,  though  a  wretched  dwelling, 
to  retire  to.     My  honest  next  neighbour  and  his  children 
were  not  the  least  assiduous  in  providing  us  with  every- 
thing necessary,  and  offering  whatever  consolation  untutored 
benevolence  could  suggest. 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  curiosity  to 
know  the  cause  of  my  long  stay  began  to  take  place. 
Having,  therefore,  informed  them  of  every  particular,  I 
proceeded  to  prepare  them  for  the  reception  of  our  lost 
one ;  and  though  we  had  nothing  but  wretchedness  now 


Of  FENCED  EASILY  PARDONED.  395 

to  impart,  I  was  willing  to  procure  her  a  welcome  to  what 
we  had.  This  task  would  have  been  more  difficult  but  foi 
our  own  recent  calamity,  which  had  humbled  my  wife's 
pride,  and  blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions.  Being 
unable  to  go  for  my  poor  child  myself,  as  my  arm  grew 
very  painful,  I  sent  my  son  and  daughter,  who  soon 
returned,  supporting  the  wretched  delinquent,  who  had  not 
the  courage  to  look  up  at  her  mother,  whom  no  instruc- 
tions of  mine  could  persuade  to  a  perfect  reconciliation  ; 
for  women  have  a  much  stronger  sense  of  female  error  than 
men. 

"Ah,  madam! "cried  her  mother,  "this  is  but  a  poor 
place  you  are  come  to  after  so  much  finery.  My  daughter 
Sophy  and  I  can  afford  but  little  entertainment  to  persons 
who  have  kept  company  only  with  people  of  distinction. 
Yes,  Miss  Livy,  your  poor  father  and  I  have  suffered 
very  much  of  late ;  but  I  hope  Heaven  will  forgive  you." 

During  this  reception  the  unhappy  victim  stood  pale 
and  trembling,  unable  to  weep  or  to  reply :  but  I  could 
'not  continue  a  silent  spectator  of  her  distress ;  wherefore, 
assuming  a  degree  of  severity  in  my  voice  and  manner, 
which  was  ever '  followed  with  instant  submission, — "I 
entreat,  woman,  that  my  words  may  now  be  marked 
once  for  all :  I  have  here  brought  you  back  a  poor 
deluded  wanderer :  her  return  to  duty  demands  the  revival 
of  our  tenderness.  The  real  hardships  of  life  are  now 
coming  fast  upon  us ;  let  us  not,  therefore,  increase  them 
by  dissensions  among  each  other.  If  we  live  harmoniously 
together  we  may  yet  be  contented,  as  there  are  enough 


396  THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEF1ELD. 

of  us  to  shut  out  the  censuring  world,  and  keep  each 
other  in  countenance.  The  kindness  of  Heaven  is  pro- 
mised to  the  penitent,  and  let  ours  be  directed  by  the 
example.  Heaven,  we  are  assured,  is  much  more  pleased 
to  v  ew  a  penitent  sinner  than  ninety-nine  persons  who 
have  supported  a  course  of  undeviating  rectitude :  and  this 
is  -right ;  for  that  single  effort,  by  which  we  stop  short  in 
the  down-hill  path  of  perdition,  is  of  itself  a  greater  exer 
tion  of  virtue  than  a  hundred  acts  of  justice." 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 


HTONB   BUT  TH«  GUILTY  CAN    BE   LONG   AND   COMPLETELY 
MISERABLE. 

JOME  assiduity  was  now  required  to  make  oui 
present  abode  as  convenient  as  possible,  and 
we  were  soon  again  qualified  to  enjoy  our 
former  serenity.  Being  disabled  myself  from 
assisting  my  son  in  our  usual  occupations,  I  read  to  my 
family  from  the  few  books  that  were  saved,  and  particu- 
larly from  such  as,  by  amusing  the  imagination,  contributed 
to  ease  the  heart.  Our  good  neighbours,  too,  came  every 
day  with  the  kindest  condolence,  and  fixed  a  time  in  which 
they  were  all  to  assist  in  repairing  my  former  dwelling. 
Honest  Farmer  Williams  was  not  last  among  these  visitors, 
but  heartily  offered  his  friendship :  he  would  even  have 
renewed  his  addresses  to  my  daughter,  but  she  rejected 
them  in  such  a  manner  as  totally  repressed  his  future 
solicitations.  Her  grief  seemed  formed  for  continuing, 
and  she  was  the  only  person  in  our  little  society  that  a 
week  did  not  restore  to  cheerfulness.  She  now  lost  that 


398  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

unblushing  innocence,  which  once  taught  her  to  respecl 
herself,  and  to  seek  pleasure  by  pleasing.  Anxiety  had 
now  taken  strong  possession  of  her  mind  ;  her  beauty 
began  to  be  impaired  with  her  constitution,  and  neglect 
still  more  contributed  to  diminish  it  Every  tender 
epithet  bestowed  on  her  sister  brought  a  pang  to  her  heart 
and  a  tear  to  her  eye ;  and  as  one  vice,  though  cured,  ever 
plants  others  where  it  has  been,  so  her  former  guilt,  though 
driven  out  by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and  envy  behind. 
I  strove  a  thousand  ways  to  lessen  her  care,  and  even 
forgot  my  own  pain  in  a  concern  for  hers,  collecting  such 
amusing  passages  of  history  as  a  strong  memory  and  some 
reading  could  suggest.  "  Our  happiness,  my  dear,"  I 
would  say,  "  is  in  the  power  of  One  who  can  bring  it  about 
in  a  thousand  unforeseen  ways,  that  mock  our  foresight. 
If  example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I'll  give  you  a  story, 
my  child,  told  us  by  a  grave  though  sometimes  romancing 
historian. 

"  Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a  Neapolitan 
nobleman  of  the  first  quality,  and  found  herself  a  widow 
and  a  mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  As  she  stood  one  day 
caressing  her  infant  son  in  the  open  window  of  an  apart- 
ment which  hung  over  the  river  Volturna,  the  child,  with  a 
sudden  spring,  leaped  from  her  arms  into  the  flood  below, 
and  disappeared  in  a  moment  The  mother,  struck  with 
instant  surprise,  and  making  an  effort  to  save  him,  plunged 
in  after ;  but  far  from  being  able  to  assist  the  infant,  she 
herself  with  great  difficulty  escaped  to  the  opposite  shore, 
just  when  some  French  soldiers  were  plundering  the 


NONE  BUT  THE  GUILTY  CAN  LONG  BE  MISERABLE.      379 

country  on  that  side,  who  immediately  made   her   then 
prisoner. 

"  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the  French 
and  Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity,  they  were  going 
at  once  to  perpetrate  those  two  extremes  suggested    by 
appetite  and  cruelty.     This  base  resolution,  however,  was 
opposed    by   a    young    officer,    who,   though    his    retreat 
required  the  utmost  expedition,  placed  her  behind    him, 
and  brought  her  in  safety  to  his  native  city.     Her  beauty 
at  first  caught  his  eye ;  her  merit>  soon  after,  his  heart : 
they  were  married  ;    he  rose  to  the  highest  posts  ;    they 
lived    long   together,  and  were  happy.      But   the  felicity 
of  a  soldier  can  never  be   called   permanent :    after   an 
interval  of  several  years,  the  troops  which  he  commanded 
having  met  with  a  repulse,  he  was  obliged  to  take   shelter 
in  the  city  where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.     Here  they 
suffered  a  siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was  taken.     Few 
histories  can  produce  more  various    instances  of  cruelty 
than  those  which  the  French  and   Italians   at  that  time 
exercised  upon  each  other.     It  was  resolved  by  the  victors 
upon  this  occasion  to   put    all  the   French    prisoners   to 
death  ;    but  particularly  the  husband   of  the    unfortunate 
Matilda,  as  he  was  principally  instrumental  in  protracting 
me   siege.      Their  determinations   were,  in    general,  exe- 
cuted   almost    as   soon   as   resolved    upon.      The    captive 
soldier  was  led  forth,  and  the  executioner,  with  his  sword, 
stood    ready,    while    the    spectators,   in    gloomy    silence 
awaited  the  fatal  blow,  which  was  only  suspended  till  the 
general,  who  presided  as  judge,  should  give  the  signal.     It 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


was  in  this  interval  of  anguish  and  expectation  that 
Matilda  came  to  take  her  last  farewell  of  her  husband 
and  deliverer,  deploring  her  wretched  situation  and  the 
cruelty  of  fate,  that  had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a 
premature  death  in  the  river  Volturna  to  be  the  spectator 
of  still  greater  calamities.  The  general,  who  was  a  young 
man,  was  struck  with  surprise  at  her  beauty,  and  pity  at 
her  distress  ;  but  with  still  stronger  emotions  when  he 
heard  her  mention  her  former  dangers.  He  was  her  son, 
the  infant  for  whom  she  had  encountered  so  much  danger  : 
he  acknowledged  her  at  once  as  his  mother,  and  fell  at  her 
feet.  The  rest  may  be  easily  supposed  :  the  captive  was 
set  free  :  and  all  the  happiness  that  love,  friendship,  and 
duty  could  confer  on  earth,  were  united." 

In  this  manner  I  would  attempt  to  amuse  my  daughter  : 
but  she  listened  with  divided  attention,  for  her  own  mis- 
fortunes engrossed  all  the  pity  she  once  had  for  those 
of  another,  and  nothing  gave  her  ease.  In  company  she 
dreaded  contempt  ;  and  in  solitude  she  only  found  anxiety. 
Such  was  the  colour  of  her  wretchedness,  when  we  received 
certain  information  that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  going  to  be 
married  to  Miss  Wilmot,  for  whom  I  always  suspected  he 
had  a  real  passion,  though  he  took  every  opportunity  before 
me  to  express  his  contempt  both  of  her  person  and 
fortune.  This  news  served  only  to  increase  poor  Olivia's 
affliction  ;  for  such  a  flagrant  breach  of  fidelity  was  more 
than  her  courage  could  support.  I  was  resolved,  however, 
to  get  more  certain  information,  and  to  defeat,  if  possible, 
the  completion  of  his  designs,  by  sending  my  son  to  old 


MONE  BUT  THE  GUILTY  CAN  LONG  &E  MISERABLE.      4*1 

Wil mot's,  with  instructions  to  know  the  truth  of  the  report, 
and  to  deliver  Miss  Wilmot  a  letter,  intimating  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill's  conduct  in  my  family.  My  son  went,  in  pursuance  of 
my  directions,  and  in  three  days  returned,  assuring  us 
of  the  truth  of  the  account :  but  that  he  had  found  it  im- 
possible to  deliver  the  letter,  which  he  was  therefore 
obliged  to  leave,  as  Mr.  Thornhill  and  Miss  Wilmot  were 
visiting  round  the  country.  They  were  to  be  married, 
he  said,  in  a  few  days,  having  appeared  together  at  church, 
the  Sunday  before  he  was  there,  in  great  splendour,  the 
bride  attended  by  six  young  ladies,  and  he  by  as  many 
gentlemen.  Their  approaching  nuptials  filled  the  whole 
country  with  rejoicing,  and  they  usually  rode  out  together 
in  the  grandest  equipage  that  had  been  in  the  country 
for  many  years.  All  the  friends  of  both  families,  he  said, 
were  there,  particularly  the  squire's  unclet  Sir  William, 
who  bore  so  good  a  character.  He  added,  that  nothing 
but  mirth  and  feasting  were  going  forward ;  that  all 
the  country  praised  the  young  bride's  beauty,  and  the 
bridegroom's  fine  person  ;  and  that  they  were  immensely 
fond  of  each  other:  concluding,  that  he  could  not  help 
thinking  Mr.  Thornhill  one  of  the  most  happy  men  in 
the  world. 

"  Why,  let  him,  if  he  can,"  returned  I ;  "  but,  my  son, 
observe  this  bed  of  straw  and  unsheltering  roof;  these 
mouldering  walls  and  humid  floor ;  my  wretched  body, 
thus  disabled  by  fire,  and  my  children  weeping  around 
me  for  bread  :  you  have  come  home,  my  child,  to  all  this ; 

yet  here,  even  here,  you  see  a  man  that  would  not  tor  a 

26 


40*  THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEF1ELD. 

thousand  worlds  exchange  situations.  Oh,  my  children, 
if  you  could  but  learn  to  commune  with  your  own  hearts 
and  know  what  noble  company  you  can  make  them,  you 
would  little  regard  the  elegance  and  splendour  of  the 
worthless.  Almost  all  men  have  been  taught  to  call  life 
a  passage,  and  themselves  the  travellers.  The  similitude 
still  may  be  improved,  when  we  observe  that  the  good  are 
joyful  and  serene,  like  travellers  that  are  going  towards 
home :  the  wicked  but  by  intervals  happy,  like  travellers 
that  are  going  into  exile." 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpowered  by 
this  new  disaster,  interrupted  what  I  had  farther  to  observe. 
I  bade  her  mother  support  her,  and  after  a  short  time  she 
recovered.  She  appeared  from  that  time  more  calm,  and 
I  imagined  had  gained  a  new  degree  of  resolution  ;  but 
appearances  deceived  me,  for  her  tranquillity  was  the 
languor  of  overwrought  resentment.  A  supply  of  pro- 
visions, charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind  parishioners,  seemed 
to  diffuse  new  cheerfulness  among  the  rest  of  my  family : 
nor  was  I  displeasd  at  seeing  them  once  more  sprightly, 
and  at  ease.  It  would  have  been  unjust  to  damp  their 
satisfactions,  merely  to  condole  with  resolute  melancholy, 
or  to  burden  them  with  a  sadness  they  did  not  feel.  Thus, 
once  more,  the  tale  went  round,  and  a  song  was  demanded, 
and  cheerfulness,  condescended  to  hover  round  our  little 
haoitatioiu 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

FRESH  CALAMITIES. 

HE  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar 
warmth  for  the  season,  so  that  we  agreed  to 
breakfast  together  on  the  honeysuckle  bank  , 
where,  while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daughter,  at 
my  request,  joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees 
about  us.  It  was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met 
her  seducer,  and  every  object  served  to  recall  her  sadness  ; 
but  that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure, 
or  inspired  by  sounds  of  harmony,  soothes  the  heart  instead 
of  corroding  it.  Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion  felt  a 
pleasing  distress,  and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as 
before. 

" Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,"  cried  she,  "let  us  have  that 
little  melancholy  air  your  papa  was  so  fond  of;  your 
sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do,  child  ;  it  will 
please  your  old  father."  She  complied,  in  a  manner  so 
exquisitely  pathetic  as  moved  me : — 


When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds,  too  late,  that  men  betray. 


VICA&  OF  WAK&P1EL&. 


What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die, 

As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which  an 
interruption  in  her  voice,  from  sorrow,  gave  peculiar  soft- 
ness, the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  equipage  at  a 
distance  .alarmed  us  all,  but  particularly  increased  the 
uneasiness  of  my  eldest  daughter,  who,  desirious  of  shunning 
her  betrayer,  returned  to  the  house  with  her  sister.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  was  alighted  from  his  chariot,  and  makin<; 
up  to  the  place  where  I  was  still  sitting,  inquired  after  my 
health  with  his  usual  air  of  familiarity.  "Sir,"  replied  1, 
"  your  present  assurance  only  serves  to  aggravate  the  base- 
ness of  your  character  ;  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  would 
have  chastised  your  insolence  for  presuming  thus  to  appear 
before  me  :  but  now  you  are  safe  ;  for  age  has  cooled  my 
passions,  and  my  calling  restrains  them." 

"  I  vow,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  he,  "  I  am  amazed  at  all 
this,  nor  can  I  understand  what  it  means.  I  hope  you  do 
not  think  your  daughter's  late  excursion  with  me  had  any- 
thing criminal  in  it" 

"  Go,"  cried  I  ;  "  thou  art  a  wretch,  a  poor,  pitiful  wretch, 
and  every  way  a  liar  ;  but  your  meanness  secures  you  from 
my  anger.  Yet,  sir,  I  am  descended  from  a  family  that 
would  not  have  borne  this.  And  so,  thou  vile  thing,  to 


fRESff  CALAMITIES.  40$ 


gratify  a  momentary  passion,  thou  hast  made  one  poor 
creature  wretched  for  life,  and  polluted  a  family  that  had 
nothing  but  honour  for  their  portion." 

"  If  she  or  you,"  returned  he,  "  are  resolved  to  be  miser- 
able, I  cannot  help  it :  but  you  may  still  be  happy  ;  and 
whatever  opinion  you  may  have  formed  of  me,  you  shall 
ever  find  me  ready  to  contribute  to  it.  We  can  marry  her 
to  another  in  a  short  time ;  and,  what  is  more,  she  may 
keep  her  lover  beside ;  for,  I  protest,  I  shall  ever  continue 
to  have  a  true  regard  for  her." 

I  found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  degrading 
proposal  ;  for  though  the  mind  may  often  be  calm  under 
great  injuries,  little  villany  can  at  any  time  get  within  the 
soul,  and  sting  it  into  rage.  "  Avoid  my  sight,  thou 
reptile,"  cried  I ;  "  nor  continue  to  insult  me  with  thy 
presence.  Were  my  brave  son  at  home  he  would  not 
suffer  this ;  but  I  am  old  and  disabled,  and  every  way 
undone." 

"I  find,"  cried  he,  "you  are  bent  upon  obliging  me  to 
talk  in  a  harsher  manner  than  I  intended  ;  but  as  I  have 
shown  you  what  may  be  hoped  from  my  friendship,  it 
may  not  be  improper  to  represent  what  may  be  the  conse- 
quence of  my  resentment.  My  attorney,  to  whom  youi 
late  bond  has  been  transferred,  threatens  hard ;  nor  do  I 
know  how  to  prevent  the  course  of  justice,  except  by  pay- 
ing the  money  myself;  which,  as  I  have  been  at  some 
expenses  lately,  previous  to  my  intended  marriage,  is  not 
so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then  my  steward  talks  of  driving 
lor  the  rent :  it  is  certain  he  knows  his  duty,  for  I  never 


406  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

trouble  myself  with  affairs  of  that  nature.  Yet  still  I  could 
wish  to  serve  you,  and  even  to  have  you  and  youi 
daughter  present  at  my  marriage,  which  is  shortly  to  be 
solemnized  with  Miss  Wilmot :  it  is  even  the  request  of 
my  charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I  hope  you  will  not 
refuse." 

"  Mr.  Thornhill,"  replied  I,  "hear  me  once  for  all :  as  to 
your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daughter,  that  I  never  will 
consent  to ;  and  though  your  friendship  could  raise  me 
to  a  throne,  or  your  resentment  sink  me  to  the  grave, 
yet  would  I  despise  both.  Thou  hast  once  woefully, 
irreparably  deceived  me :  I  reposed  my  heart  upon 
thine  honour,  and  have  found  its  baseness.  Never  more, 
therefore,  expect  friendship  from  me.  Go,  and  possess 
what  fortune  has  given  thee — beauty,  riches,  health,  and 
pleasure  :  go,  and  leave  me  to  want,  infamy,  disease,  and 
sorrow  ;  yet,  humbled  as.  I  am,  shall  my  heart  still  vindi- 
cate its  dignity ;  and  though  thou  hast  my  forgiveness, 
thou  shalt  ever  have  my  contempt." 

"  If  so,"  returned  he,  "  depend  upon  it  you  shall  feel  the 
effects  of  this  insolence,  and  we  shall  shortly  see  which  is 
the  fittest  object  of  scorn — you  or  I."  Upon  which,  he 
departed  abruptly. 

My  wife  and  son,  who  were  present  at  this  interview, 
seemed  terrified  with  apprehension  ;  my  daughters  also, 
finding  that  he  was  gone,  came  out  to  be  informed  of  the 
result  of  our  conference ;  which,  when  known,  alarmed 
them  not  less  than  the  rest.  But  as  to  myself,  I  disregarded 
the  utmost  stretch  of  his  malevolence ;  lie  had  already 


FRESff  CALAMITIES.  407 

struck  the  blow,  and  I  now  stood  prepared  to  repel  every 
new  effort,  like  one  of  those  instruments  used  in  the  art  of 
war,  which,  however  thrown,  still  presents  a  point  to  receive 
the  enemy. 

We  soon,  however,  found  that  he  had  not  threatened  in 
vain  ;  for  the  very  next  morning  his  steward  came  to 
demand  my  annual  rent,  which,  by  the  train  of  accidents 
already  related,  I  was  unable  to  pay.  The  consequence  of 
my  incapacity  was  his  driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and 
their  being  appraised  and  sold  the  next  day  for  less  than 
half  their  value.  My  wife  and  children  now,  therefore, 
entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms,  rather  than  incur 
certain  destruction :  they  even  begged  of  me  to  admit 
his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all  their  little  eloquenct 
to  paint  the  calamities  I  was  going  to  endure  ;  the  terrors 
of  a  prison  in  so  rigorous  a  season  as  the  present,  with 
the  danger  that  threatened  my  health  from  the  late  acci- 
dent that  happened  by  the  fire :  but  I  continued  in- 
flexible. 

"Why,  my  treasures,"  cried  I,  "why  will  you  thus 
attempt  to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is  not  right  ?  My 
duty  has  taught  me  co  forgive  him,  but  my  conscience  will 
not  permit  me  to  approve.  Would  you  have  me  applaud 
to  the  world  what  my  heart  must  internally  condemn  ? 
Would  you  have  me  tamely  sit  down  and  flatter  OUT 
infamous  betrayer,  and,  to  avoid  a  prison,  continually  suffei 
the  more  galling  bonds  of  mental  confinement  ?  No,  never 
If  we  are  to  be  taken  from  this  abode,  only  let  us  hold  to 
the  right,  and  wherever  we  are  thrown  we  can  still  retire  t: 


408  THE  VTCAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

a  charming  apartment,  where  we  can  look  around  our  own 
hearts  with  intrepidity  and  with  pleasure." 

In  this  manner  we  spent  that  evening.  Early  the  next 
morning,  as  the  snow  had  fallen  in  great  abundance  in 
the  night,  my  son  was  employed  in  clearing  it  away, 
and  opening  a  passage  before  the  door.  He  had  not 
been  thus  engaged  long  when  he  came  running  in,  with 
looks  all  pale,  to  tell  us  that  two  strangers,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  officers  of  justice,  were  making  towards  the 
house. 

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and  approaching  the  bed 
where  I  lay,  after  previously  informing  me  of  their  employ- 
ment and  business,  made  me  their  prisoner,  bidding  me  to 
prepare  to  go  with  them  to  the  county  jail,  which  was 
eleven  miles  off. 

"  My  friends,"  said  I,  "  this  is  severe  weather  in  which 
you  are  come  to  take  me  to  a  prison  ;  and  it  is  particu- 
larly unfortunate  at  this  time,  as  one  of  my  arms  has 
lately  been  burnt  in  a  terrible  manner,  and  it  has  thrown 
me  into  a  slight  fever,  and  I  want  clothes  to  cover  me, 
and  I  am  now  too  weak  and  old  to  walk  far  in  such  a 
deep  snow ;  but  if  it  must  be  so——" 

I  then  turned  to  my  wife  and  children,  and  directed 
them  to  get  together  what  few  things  were  left  us,  and 
prepare  immediately  for  leaving  this  place.  I  entreated 
them  to  be  expeditious,  and  desired  my  son  to  assist  his 
eldest  sister,  who,  from  a  consciousness  that  she  was  the 
cause  of  our  calamities,  was  fallen,  and  had  lost  anguish 
in  insensibility.  I  encouraged  my  wife,  who,  pale  and 


FRESH  CALAMITIES* 


409 


trembling,  clasped  our  affrighted  little  ones  in  her  arms, 
that  clung  to  her  bosom  in  silence,  dreading  to  look 
round  at  the  strangers.  In  the  meantime  my  youngest 
daughter  prepared  for  our  departure ;  and  as  she  received 
several  hints  to  use  dispatch,  in  about  an  hour  we  were 
ready  to  depart 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


SITUATION,  HOWEVER    WRETCHED    IT    SEEMS,  BUT    HAS    SOMI 
SORT  OF  COMFORT  ATTENDING  IT. 

JIE  set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neighbourhood, 
and  walked  on  slowly :  my  eldest  daughter 
being  enfeebled  by  a  slow  fever,  which  had 
begun  for  some  days  to  undermine  her  constitu- 
tion, one  of  the  officers,  who  had  a  horse,  kindly  took  her 
behind  him ;  for  even  these  men  cannot  entirely  divest 
themselves  of  humanity.  My  son  led  one  of  the  little  ones 
by  the  hand,  and  my  wife  the  other ;  while  I  leaned  upon 
my  youngest  girl,  whose  tears  fell,  not  for  her  own,  but  my 
distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about  two 
miles,  when  we  saw  a  crowd  running  and  shouting  behind 
u<%  consisting  of  about  fifty  of  my  poorest  parishioners. 
These,  with  dreadful  imprecations,  soon  seized  upon  the 
two  officers  of  justice,  and  swearing  they  would  never  see 
their  minister  go  to  a  jail  while  they  had  a  drop  of  blood 
to  shed  in  his  defence,  were  going  to  use  them  with  great 


NO  SITUATION  WITHOUT  SOME  COMFORT.  4" 

severity.  The  consequence  might  have  been  fatal,  had  1 
not  immediately  interposed,  and  with  some  difficulty  res- 
cued the  officers  from  the  hands  of  the  enraged  multitude. 
My  children,  who  looked  upon  my  delivery  now  as  certain, 
appeared  transported  with  joy,  and  were  incapable  of 
containing  their  raptures  :  but  they  were  soon  undeceived, 
upon  hearing  me  address  the  poor  deluded  people,  who 
came,  as  they  imagined,  to  do  me  service. 

"What!  my  friends,"  cried  I,  "and  is  this  the  way  you 
love  me  ?  Is  this  the  manner  you  obey  the  instructions  I 
have  given  you  from  the  pulpit — thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
justice,  and  bring  down  ruin  on  yourselves  and  me  ? 
Which  is  your  ringleader  ?  Show  me  the  man  that  has 
thus  seduced  you  :  as  sure  as  he  lives,  he  shall  feel  my 
resentment.  Alas !  my  dear  deluded  flock,  return  back 
to  the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and  to  me. 
I  shall  yet,  perhaps,  one  day  see  you  in  greater  felicity 
here,  and  contribute  to  make  your  lives  more  happy ;  but 
let  it  at  least  be  my  comfort,  when  I  pen  my  fold  foi 
immortality,  that  not  one  here  shall  be  wanting." 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and,  melting  into 
tears,  came,  one  after  the  other,  to  bid  me  farewell.  I 
shook  each  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  leaving  them  my 
blessing,  proceeded  forward  without  meeting  any  further 
interruption.  Some  hours  before  night  we  reached  the 
town,  or  rather  village  ;  for  it  consisted  but  of  a  few  mean 
houses,  having  lost  all  its  former  opulence,  and  containing 
no  marks  of  its  ancient  superiority  but  the  jail. 

Upon  emenng  we  put  up  at  an  inn,  where  we  had  such 


412  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

refreshments  as  could  most  readily  be  procured,  and  I 
supped  with  my  family  with  my  usual  cheerfulness.  After 
seeing  them  properly  accommodated  for  that  night,  I  next 
attended  the  sheriffs  officers  to  the  prison,  which  had 
formerly  been  built  for  the  purposes  of  war,  and  consisted 
of  one  large  apartment,  strongly  grated,  and  paved  with 
stone,  common  to  both  felons  and  debtors  at  certain 
hours  in  the  four-and-twenty.  Besides  this,  every  prisoner 
had  a  separate  cell,  where  he  was  locked  in  for  the 
night. 

I  expected,  upon  my  entrance,  to  find  nothing  but 
lamentations,  and  various  sounds  of  misery  ;  but  it  was 
very  different.  The  prisoners  seemed  all  employed  in  one 
common  design,  that  of  forgetting  thought  in  merriment  or 
clamour.  I  was  apprised  of  the  usual  perquisite  required 
upon  these  occasions ;  and  immediately  complied  with 
the  demand,  though  the  little  money  I  had  was  very  near 
being  all  exhausted.  This  was  immediately  sent  away  for 
liquor,  and  the  whole  prison  was  soon  filled  with  riot, 
laughter,  and  profaneness. 

"How!"  cried  I  to  myself;  "shall  men  so  very  wicked 
be  cheerful,  and  shall  I  be  melancholy  ?  I  feel  only  the 
same  confinement  with  them,  and  I  think  I  have  more 
reason  to  be  happy." 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become  cheerful : 
but  cheerfulness  was  never  yet  produced  by  effort,  which  is 
itself  painful.  As  I  was  sitting,  therefore,  in  a  corner  of 
the  jail,  in  a  pensive  posture,  one  of  my  fellow-prisoners 
came  up,  and,  sitting  by  me,  entered  into  conversation.  It 


NO  SITUATION  WITHOUT  SOME  COMFORT.  413 

was  my  constant  rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conver- 
sation of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it ;  for,  if  good,  I 
might  profit  by  his  instructions ;  if  bad,  he  might  be 
assisted  by  mine.  I  found  this  to  be  a  knowing  man,  of 
strong  unlettered  sense,  but  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
world,  as  it  is  called,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  of  human 
nature  on  the  wrong  side.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  taken 
care  to  provide  myself  with  a  bed,  which  was  a  circum- 
stance I  had  never  once  attended  to. 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  cried  he,  "  as  you  are  allowed 
nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apartment  is  very  large  and 
cold.  v  However,  you  seem  to  be  something  of  a  gentle- 
man ;  and,  as  I  have  been  one  myself  in  my  time,  part  of 
my  bedclothes  are  heartily  at  your  service." 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  finding  such 
humanity  in  a  jail,  in  misfortunes ;  adding,  to  let  him  see 
that  I  was  a  scholar,  that  the  ancient  sage  seemed  to 
understand  the  value  of  company  in  affliction,  when  he 
said,  Ton  kosmon  airet  ei  dos  ton  etairon ;  "an  ,  in 
fact,"  continued  I,  "  what  is  the  world,  if  it  affords  only 
solitude  ?" 

"  You  talk  of  the  world,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow- 
prisoner  :  "  the  world  is  in  its  dotage  ;  and  yet  the  cos- 
mogony, or  creation  of  the  world,  has  puzzled  the  philoso- 
phers of  every  age.  What  medley  of  opinions  have  they 
not  broached  upon  the  creation  of  the  world  !  Sanchonia- 
thon,  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocelius  Lucanus,  have  all 
attempted  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words : 
dnarchon  ara  kai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  implies " 


414 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


— "  I  ask  pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  "  for  interrupting  so  much 
learning  ;  but  I  think  I  have  heard  all  this  before.  Have 
I  not  had  the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at  Welbridge 
Fair  ?  and  is  not  your  name  Ephraim  Jenkinson  ?"  At 
l '.is  demand  he  only  sighed.  "  I  suppose  you  must  recol- 
lect," resumed  I,  "  one  Doctor  Primrose,  from  whom  you 
bought  a  horse." 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me,  for  the  gloominess  of 
the  place,  and  the  approaching  night,  had  prevented  his 
distinguishing  my  features  before.  "  Yes,  sir,"  returned 
Mr.  Jenkinson,  "  I  remember  you  perfectly  well :  I  bought 
a  horse,  but  forgot  to  pay  for  him.  Your  neighbour  Flam- 
borough  is  the  only  prosecuux"  I  am  any  way  afraid  of  at 
the  next  assizes  ;  for  he  intends*  V»  swe^  positively  against 
me  as  a  coiner.  I  am  heartily  sorry,  sir,  I  ever  deceived 
you,  or  indeed  any  man  ;  for  you  see,"  continued  he, 
pointing  to  his  shackles,  "what  my  tricks  have  brought 
me  to." 

'".Well,  sir,"  replied  I,  "your  kindness  in  offering  me 
assistance  when  you  could  expect  no  return,  shall  be 
repaid  with  my  endeavours  to  soften  or  totally  suppress 
Mr.  Flamborough's  evidence,  and  I  will  send  my  son  to 
him  for  that  purpose  the  first  opportunity  ;  nor  do  I  in  the 
least  doubt  but  he  will  comply  with  my  request :  and  as 
to  my  own  evidence,  you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness 
about  that"  «. 

"  Well,  sir,"  cried  he.  "  all  the  return  I  can  make  shall  be 
yours.  You  shall  have  more  than  half  my  beuclothes 


MO  SITUATION  WITHOUT  SOME  COMFORT.  4*5 

to-night,  and  I'll  take  care  to  stand  your  friend  in  the 
prison,  where  I  think  1  have  some  influence." 

I  thanked  him,  and  could  not  avoid  being  surprised  at 
the  present  youthful  change  in  his  aspect ;  for,  at  the  time 
I  had  seen  him  before,  he  appeared  at  least  sixty.  "  Sir," 
answered  he,  "you  are  little  acquainted  with  the  world. 
I  had  at  that  time  false  hair,  and  have  learned  me  art  of 
counterfeiting  every  age,  from  seventeen  to  seventy.  Ah, 
sir !  had  I  but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in  learning  a  trade 
that  I  have  in  learning  to  be  a  scoundrel,  I  might  have 
been  a  rich  man  at  this  day ;  but,  rogue  as  I  am,  still  I 
may  be  your  friend,  and  that,  perhaps,  when  vou  least 
expect  it." 

We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversation  by 
the  arrival  of  the  jailer's  servants,  who  came  to  call  over 
the  prisoners'  names,  and  lock  up  for  the  night :  a  fellow 
also  with  a  bundle  of  straw  for  my  bed  attended,  who  led 
me  along  a  dark  narrow  passage  into  a  room  paved  like 
the  common  prison,  and  in  one  corner  of  this  I  spread  my 
bed,  and  the  clothes  given  me  by  my  fello w- prisoner ; 
which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was  civil  enough,  bade  me 
a  good  night.  After  my  usual  meditations,  and  having 
praised  my  heavenly  Corrector,  I  laid  myself  down,  anc 
slept  with  the  utmost  tranquillity  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  REFORMATION  IN  THE    JAIL. — TO    MAKE   LAWS   COMPLETE,  THEt 
SHOULD   REWARD  AS  WELL  AS  PUNISH. 

HE  next  morning  early  I  was  awakened  by  my 
family,  whom  I  found  in  tears  at  my  bedside. 
The  gloomy  appearance  of  everything  about 
us*  it  seems,  had  daunted  them.  I  gently 
rebuked  their  sorrow,  assuring  them  I  had  never  slept 
with  greater  tranquillity  ;  and,  next,  inquired  after  my 
eldest  daughter,  who  was  not  among  them  :  they  informed 
me  that  yesterday's  uneasiness  and  fatigue  had  increased 
her  fever,  and  it  was  judged  proper  to  leave  her  behind. 
My  next  care  was  to  send  my  son  to  procure  a  room  or 
two  to  lodge  my  family  in,  as  near  the  prison  as  con- 
veniently could  be  found.  He  obeyed,  but  could  only 
find  one  apartment,  which  was  hired  at  a  small  expense 
for  his  mother  and  sisters;  the  jailer  with  humanity  con- 
senting to  let  him  and  his  two  little  brothers  be  in  the 
prison  with  me :  a  bed  was  therefore  prepared  for  them  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  which  I  thought  answered  very 


REFORMATION  IN  TffE  JAIL.  417 


conveniently.  I  was  willing,  however,  previously  to  know 
whether  my  little  children  chose  to  lie  in  a  place  which 
seemed  to  frighten  them  upon  entrance. 

"  Well,"  cried  I,  "  my  good  boys,  how  do  you  like  your 
bed  ?  I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in  this  room,  dark 
as  it  appears  ?" 

"  No,  papa,"  says  Dick,  "  I  am  not  afraid  to  lie  any- 
where where  you  are." 

"And  I,"  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years  old, 
"  love  every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in." 

After  this  I  allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what  they 
were  to  do.  My  daughter  was  particularly  directed  to 
watch  her  declining  sister's  health  ;  my  wife  was  to  attend 
me  ;  my  little  boys  were  to  read  to  me.  "  And  as  for 
you,  my  son,"  continued  I,  "it  is  by  the  labour  of  your 
hands  we  must  all  hope  to  be  supported.  Your  wages  as 
a  day  labourer  will  be  fully  sufficient,  with  proper  frugality, 
to  maintain  us  all,  and  comfortably  too.  Thou  art  now 
sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength  and  it  was  given  thee, 
my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes  ,  for  it  must  save  from 
famine  your  helpless  parents  and  family.  Prepare  then 
this  evening  to  look  out  for  work  against  to-morrow, 
and  bring  home  evtry  night  what  money  you  earn  for  our 
support" 

Having  thus  instructed  him,  and  settled  the  rest,  I 
ivalked  down  to  the  common  prison,  where  T  COuld  enjoy 
more  air  and  room  -^  but  j  was  not  iong  ^ere,  when  the 
execrations,  lewdness,  and  brutality  that  invaded  me  on 
every  side,  drove  me  back  to  my  apartments  again  :  here  I 


4J8  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

sat  for  some  time,  pondering  upon  the  strange  infatuation 
of  wretches  who,  finding  all  mankind  in  open  arms  against 
them,  were  labouring  to  make  themselves  a  future  and 
tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compassion,  and 
blotted  my  own  uneasiness  from  my  mind  :  it  even  appeared 
a  duty  incumbent  upon  me  to  attempt  to  reclaim  them.  I 
resolved,  therefore,  once  more  to  return,  and,  in  spite  ol 
their  contempt,  to  give  them  my  advice,  and  conquer  them 
by  perseverance.  Going  therefore  among  them  again,  I 
informed  Mr.  Jenkinson  of  my  design ;  at  which  hf 
laughed  heartily,  but  communicated  it  to  the  rest.  The 
proposal  was  received  with  the  greatest  good  humour,  as  it 
promised  to  afford  a  new  fund  of  entertainment  to  persons 
who  had  now  no  other  resource  for  mirth  but  what  could 
be  derived  from  ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service  with  a 
loud  unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audience  perfectly 
merry  upon  the  occasion :  lewd  whispers,  groans  of  con- 
trition burlesqued,  winking  and  coughing,  alternately  ex- 
cited laughter.  However,  I  continued  with  my  natural 
solemnly  to  read  on,  sensible  that  what  I  did  might 
amend  some,  but  could  itself  receive  no  contamination 
from  any. 

After  reading  I  entered  upon  my  exhortation,  which 
was  rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them  than  to 
reprove.  I  previously  observed  that  no  other  motive  but 
their  welfare  could  induce  me  to  this  ;  that  I  was  their 
fellow-prisoner,  and  now  got  nothing  by  preaching.  I  was 


REFORMATION  IN  THE  JAIL. 


sorry,  I  said,  to  hear  them  so  very  profane  ;  because  they 
got  nothing  by  it,  and  might  lose  a  great  deal  :  "  For  be 
assured,  my  friends,"  cried  I  ("  for  you  are  my  friends,  how- 
ever the  world  may  disclaim  your  friendship),  though  you 
swore  twelve  thousand  oaths  in  a  day,  it  would  not  put 
one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what  signifies  calling 
every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and  courting  his  friendship, 
since  you  find  how  scurvily  he  uses  you?  He  has  given 
you  nothing  here,  you  find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths  and  an 
empty  belly  ;  and  by  the  best  accounts  I  have  of  him,  he 
will  give  you  nothing  that's  good  hereafter. 

"  If  used  ill  in  our  dealing  with  one  man,  we  naturally 
go  elsewhere.  Were  it  not  worth  your  while,  then,  just  to 
try  how  you  may  like  the  usage  of  another  Master,  who 
gives  you  fair  promises,  at  least,  to  come  to  Him  ?  Surely, 
my  friends,  of  all  stupidity  in  the  world,  his  must  be  the 
greatest,  who,  after  robbing  a  house,  runs  to  the  thief- 
takers  for  protection  :  and  yet  how  are  you  more  wise  ? 
You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from  one  that  has  already 
betrayed  you,  applying  to  a  more  malicious  being  than 
any  thief-taker  of  them  all  ;  for  they  only  decoy,  and  then 
hang  you  ;  but  he  decoys  and  hangs,  and,  what  is  worst 
of  all,  will  not  let  you  loose  after  the  hangman  has 
done." 

When  I  had  concluded  I  received  the  compliments  of 
my  audience,  some  of  whom  came  and  shook  me  by  the 
hand,  swearing  that  I  was  a  very  honest  fellow,  and 
that  they  desired  my  farther  acquaintance.  I  therefore 
promised  to  repeat  my  lecture  next  day,  and  actually 


4*>  TffS  VteAR  Of  WAKEF1ELD. 


conceived  some  hope  of  making  a  reformation  here  ;  for  it 
had  ever  been  my  opinion  that  no  man  was  past  the  hour 
of  amendment,  every  heart  lying  open  to  the  shafts  of 
reproof,  if  the  archer  could  but  take  a  proper  aim.  When 
I  had  thus  satisfied  my  mind  I  went  back  to  my  apart- 
ment, where  my  wife  prepared  a  frugal  meal,  while  Mr. 
Jenkinson  begged  leave  to  add  his  dinner  to  ours,  and 
partake  of  the  pleasure,  as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express 
it,  of  my  conversation.  He  had  not  yet  seen  my  family  ; 
for,  as  they  came  to  my  apartment  by  a  door  in  the 
narrow  passage  already  described,  by  this  means  they 
avoided  the  common  prison  :  Jenkinson,  at  the  first 
interview,  therefore,  seemed  not  a  little  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  my  youngest  daughter,  which  her  pensive  air 
contributed  to  heighten  ;  and  my  little  ones  did  not  pass 
unnoticed. 

"Alas,  doctor!"  cried  he,  "these  children  are  too  hand- 
some and  too  good  for  such  a  place  as  this." 

"Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  replied  I,  "thank  Heaven, 
my  children  are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals  ;  and  if  they 
be  good,  it  matters  little  for  the  rest." 

"I  fancy,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow-prisoner,  "that  it 
must  give  you  a  great  comfort  to  have  this  little  family 
about  you." 

"A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson!"  replied  I:  "yes,  it  is 
indeed  a  comfort,  and  I  would  not  be  without  them  for  all 
the  world  :  for  they  can  make  a  dungeon  seem  a  palace. 
There  is  but  one  way  in  this  life  of  wounding  my  happi- 
ness, and  that  is  by  injuring  them." 


REFORMATION  IN  THE  JAIL. 


"  I  am  afraid  then,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  am  in  some 
measure  culpable  ;  for  I  think  I  see  here  [looking  at  my 
son  Moses]  one  that  I  have  injured,  and  by  whom  I  wish 
to  be  forgiven." 

My  son  immediately  recollected  his  voice  and  features, 
though  he  had  before  seen  him  in  disguise  ;  and,  taking 
him  by  the  hand,  with  a  smile  forgave  him.  "  Yet,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  I  can't  help  wondering  at  what  you  could  see 
in  my  face  to  think  me  a  proper  mark  for  deception." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  returned  the  other,  "  it  was  not  your 
face,  but  your  white  stockings  and  the  black  ribbon  on 
your  hair  that  allured  me.  But,  no  disparagement  to 
your  parts,  I  have  deceived  wiser  men  than  you  in  my 
time  ;  and  yet,  with  all  my  tricks,  the  blockheads  have 
been  too  many  for  me  at  last" 

"  I  suppose,"  cried  my  son,  "  that  the  narrative  of 
such  a  life  as  yours  must  be  extremely  instructive  and 
amusing." 

"  Not  much  of  either,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson  :  "  those 
relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and  vices  only  of 
mankind,  by  increasing  our  suspicion  in  life,  retard  our 
success.  The  traveller  that  distrusts  every  person  he 
meets,  and  turns  back  upon  the  appearance  of  every  man 
that  looks  like  a  robber,  seldom  arrives  in  time  at  his 
journey's  end.  Indeed,  I  think,  from  my  own  experience, 
that  the  knowing  one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the  sun. 
I  was  thought  cunning  from  my  very  childhood  ;  when 
but  seven  years  old,  the  ladies  would  say  that  I  was  a 
perfect  little  man  ;  at  fourteen  I  knew  the  world,  cocked 


42i  TffE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

my  hat,  and  loved  the  ladies ;  at  twenty,  though  I  was 
perfectly  honest,  yet  every  one  thought  me  so  cunning, 
that  no  one  would  trust  me.  Thus  I  was  at  last  obliged  to 
turn  sharper  in  my  own  defence,  and  have  lived  ever  since, 
my  head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  deceive,  and  my  heart 
palpitating  with  fears  of  detection.  I  used  often  to  laugh 
at  your  honest  simple  neighbour  Flamborough,  and  one 
way  or  another  generally  cheated  him  once  a  year: 
yet  still  the  honest  man  went  forward  without  suspicion, 
and  grew  rich  ;  while  I  still  continued  tricksy  and  cunning, 
and  was  poor  without  the  consolation  of  being  honest. 
However,"  continued  he,  "  let  me  know  your  case,  and 
what  has  brought  you  here :  perhaps,  though  I  have 
not  skill  to  avoid  a  jail  myself,  I  may  extricate  my 
friends." 

In  compliance  with  his  curiosity,  I  informed  him  of 
the  whole  train,  of  accidents  and  follies  that  had  plunged 
me  into  my  present  troubles,  and  my  utter  inability  to 
get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  minutes,  he 
slapped  his  forehead,  as  if  he   had    hit  upon  something 
material,  and   took  his  leave,  saying  he  would  try  wh 
could  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT  CONTINUED. 

HE  next  morning  I  communicated  to  my  wife 
and  children  the  schemes  I  had  planned  of 
reforming  the  prisoners,  which  they  received 
with  universal  disapprobation,  alleging  the  im- 
possibility and  impropriety  of  it ;  adding  that  my  en- 
deavours would  no  way  contribute  to  their  amendment, 
but  might  probably  disgrace  my  calling. 

"  Excuse  me,"  returned  I ;  "  these  people,  however  fallen, 
are  still  men  ;  and  that  is  a  very  good  title  to  my  affections. 
Good  counsel  rejected  returns  to  enrich  the  giver's  bosom  ; 
and  though  the  instruction  I  communicate  may  not  mend 
them,  yet  it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If  these  wretches, 
my  children,  were  princes,  there  would  be  thousands  ready 
to  offer  their  ministry  ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  the  heart  that 
is  buried  in  a  dungeon  is  as  precious  as  that  seated  upon  a 
throne.  Yes,  my  treasures,  if  I  can  mend  them  I  will  : 
perhaps  they  will  not  all  despise  me  ;  perhaps  I  may  catch 
up  even  one  from  the  gulf,  and  that  will  be  great  gain  ;  for 
is  there  upon  earth  a  gem  so  precious  as  the  human  soul  ?" 


4*4  THE  VlCAtl  OF 


Thus  saying,  I  left  them,  and  descended  to  the  common 
prison,  where  I  found  the  prisoners  very  merry,  expecting 
my  arrival,  and  each  prepared  with  some  jail-trick  to  play 
upon  the  doctor.  Thus,  as  I  was  going  to  begin,  one 
turned  my  wig  awry,  as  if  by  accident,  and  then  asked  my 
pardon  ;  a  second,  who  stood  at  some  distance,  had  a  knack 
of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  which  fell  in  showers  upon 
my  book  ;  a  third  would  cry  Amen  !  in  such  an  afiected 
tone  as  gave  the  rest  great  delight  ;  a  fourth  had  slily 
picked  my  pockets  of  my  spectacles  :  but  there  was  one 
whose  trick  gave  more  universal  pleasure  than  all  the  rest  ; 
for,  observing  the  manner  in  which  I  had  disposed  my 
books  on  the  table  before  me,  he  very  dexterously  dis- 
placed one  of  them,  and  put  an  obscene  jest-book  of  his 
own  in  the  place.  However,  I  took  no  notice  of  all  this 
mischievous  group  of  little  beings  could  do,  but  went  on, 
perfectly  sensible  that  what  was  ridiculous  in  my  attempt 
would  excite  mirth  only  the  first  or  second  time,  while 
what  was  serious  would  be  permanent.  My  design  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  in  less  than  six  days  some  were  penitent,  and 
all  attentive. 

It  was  now  that  I  applauded  my  perseverance  and 
address,  at  thus  giving  sensibility  to  wretches  divested  of 
every  moral  feeling,  and  now  began  to  think  of  doing 
them  temporal  service  also,  by  rendering  their  situation 
somev/hat  more  comfortable.  Their  time  had  hitherto 
been  divided  between  famine  and  excess,  tumultuous  riot 
and  bitter  repining  :  their  own  employment  was  quarrelling 
among  each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and  cutting 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT  CONTINUED.  425 

tobacco  stoppers.  From  this  last  mode  of  idle  industry  I 
took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as  chose  to  work  at  cutting 
pegs  for  tobacconists  and  shoemakers,  the  proper  wood 
being  bought  by  a  general  subscription,  and  when 
manufactured,  sold  by  my  appointment ;  so  that  each 
earned  something  every  day  ;  a  trifle  indeed,  but  sufficient 
to  maintain  him. 

I  did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the  punish- 
ment of  immorality,  and  rewards  for  peculiar  industry. 
Thus  in  less  than  a  fortnight  I  had  formed  them  into 
something  social  and  humane,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
regarding  myself  as  a  legislator  who  had  brought  men 
from  their  native  ferocity  into  friendship  and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished  that  legislative  power 
would  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reformation  than 
severity ;  that  it  would  soon  be  convinced  that  the  work 
of  eradicating  crimes  is  not  by  making  punishments 
familiar,  but  formidable.  Then — instead  of  our  present 
prisons,  which  find  or  make  men  guilty  ;  which  enclose 
wretches  for  the  commission  of  one  crime,  and  return 
them,  if  returned  alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of 
thousands — it  were  to  be  wished  we  had,  as  in  other  parts 
of  Europe,  places  of  penitence  and  solitude,  where  the 
accused  might  be  attended  by  such  as  would  give  them 
repentance  if  guilty,  or  new  motives  to  virtue  if  innocent 
And  this,  but  not  the  increasing  punishments,  is  the  way 
to  mend  a  state ;  nor  can  I  avoid  even  questioning  the 
validity  of  that  right  which  social  combinations  have 
assumed,  of  capitally  punishing  offences  of  a  slight  nature. 


426  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

In  cases  of  murder  their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty 
of  us  all,  from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man 
who  has  shown  a  disregard  for  the  life  of  another  ;  against 
such  all  nature  rises  in  arms,  but  it  is  not  so  against  him 
who  steals  my  property.  Natural  law  gives  me  no  right 
to  take  away  his  life,  as  by  that  the  horse  he  steals  is  a> 
much  his  property  as  mine.  If,  then,  I  have  any  right 
it  must  be  from  a  compact  made  between  us,  that  he  whc 
deprives  the  other  of  his  horse  shall  die.  But  this  is  a 
false  compact,  because  no  man  has  a  right  to  barter  his 
life,  no  more  than  take  it  away,  as  it  is  not  his  own.  And 
besides,  the  compact  is  inadequate,  and  would  be  :>et  aside 
even  in  a  court  of  modern  equity,  as  there  is  a  great 
penalty  for  a  trifling  inconvenience  ;  since  it  is  far  better 
that  two  men  should  live  than  one  man  should  ride.  But 
a  compact  that  is  false  between  two  men  is  equally  sc 
between  a  hundred  and  a  hundred  thousand  ;  for  as  tei 
millions  of  circles  can  never  make  a  square,  so  the  unitec 
voice  of  myriads  cannot  lend  the  smallest  foundation  t< 
falsehood.  It  is  thus  that  reason  speaks,  and  untutored 
nature  says  the  same  thing.  Savages,  that  are  directed  b; 
natural  law  alone,  are  very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each 
other  ;  they  seldom  shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  forme \ 
cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in  war,  had  bu 
few  executions  in  times  of  peace  ;  and  in  all  commencing 
governments  that  have  the  print  of  nature  still  strong  upoi 
them  scarce  any  crime  is  held  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a  refined  community  thai 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT  CONTINUED.  4«7 

penal  laws,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the  rich,  are  laid 
upon  the  poor.  Government,  while  it  grows  older,  seems 
to  acquire  the  moroseness  of  age  ;  and  as  if  our  property 
were  become  dearer  in  proportion  as  it  increased — as  if 
the  more  enormous  our  wealth  the  more  extensive  our  fears, 
— all  our  possessions  are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every 
day,  and  hung  round  with  gibbets  to  scare  every  invader. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  number  of  our  penal 
la  \vs,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people,  that  this  country 
should  show  more  convicts  in  a  year  than  half  the  domin- 
ions of  Europe  united.  Perhaps  it  is  owing  to  both,  for 
they  mutually  produce  each  other.  When  by  indiscrim- 
inate penal  laws  a  nation  beholds  the  same  punishment 
affixed  to  dissimilar  degrees  of  guilt,  from  perceiving  no 
distinction  in  the  penalty,  the  people  are  led  to  lose  all 
sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and  this  distinction 
is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality ;  thus  the  multitude  of 
laws  produces  new  vices,  and  new  vices  call  for  fresh 
restraints. 

It  were  to  be  wished,  then,  that  power  instead  of  con- 
triving new  laws  to  punish  vice,  instead  of  drawing  hard 
the  cords  of  society  till  a  convulsion  come  to  burst  them, 
instead  of  cutting  away  wretches  as  useless  before  we 
have  tried  their  utility,  instead  of  converting  correction 
into  vengeance, — it  were  to  be  wished  that  we  tried  the 
restrictive  arts  of  government,  and  made  laws  the  pro- 
tecto",  but  not  the  tyrant,  of  the  people.  We  should 
then  rind  that  creatures  whose  souls  are  held  as  dross 
on1/  >v/r«d  the  hand  of  a  refiner;  we  should  then  find 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


that  wretches  now  stuck  up  for  long  tortures,  lest  luxury 
should  feel  a  momentary  pang,  might,  if  properly  treated, 
serve  to  unew  the  state  in  times  of  danger  ;  that  as  their 
faces  are  like  ours,  their  hearts  are  so  too  ;  that  few  minds 
are  so  base  as  that  perseverance  cannot  amend  ;  that  a 
man  may  see  his  last  crime  without  dying  for  it  ;  and  that 
/ery  little  blood  will  serve  to  cement  our  security. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


HAPPINESS     AND     MISERY     RATHER     THE     RESULT    O* 

THAN  OF  VIRTUE  IN  THIS  LIFE  ;  TEMPORAL  EVILC  OP  FELICITIES 
BEING  REGARDED  BY  HEAVEN  AS  THINGS  MEPJLLV  TN  THEM- 
SELVES TRIFLING,  AND  UNWORTHY  ITS  CARS  IM  THI  DISTRIBU- 
TION. 

HAD  now  been  confined  more  than  a  fortnight, 
but  had  not  since  my  arrival  been  visited  by  my 
dear  Olivia ;  and  I  greatly  longed  to  see  her. 
Having  communicated  my  wishes  to  my  wife, 
the  next  morning  the  poor  girl  entered  my  apartment 
leaning  on  her  sister's  arm.  The  change  which  I  saw  in 
her  countenance  struck  me.  The  numberless  graces  that 
once  resided  there  were  now  fled,  and  the  hand  of  death 
seemed  to  have  moulded  every  feature  to  alarm  me :  her 
temples  were  sunk;  her  forehead  was  tense,  and  a  fatal 
paleness  sat  upon  her  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,"  cried  I ;  u  but  why 
this  dejection,  Livy  ?  I  hope,  my  love,  you  have  too  great 
a  regard  for  me  to  permit  disappointment  thus  to  under 


430  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIRLD. 

• 
mine  a  life  which  I  prize  as  my  own.      Be  cheerful,  my 

child,  and  we  may  yet  see  happier  days." 

"  You  have  ever,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  been  kind  to  me ; 
and  it  adds  to  my  pain  that  I  shall  never  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  sharing  the  happiness  you  promise.  Happiness, 
I  fear,  is  no  longer  reserved  for  me  here,  and  I  long  to  be 
rid  of  a  place  where  I  have  only  found  distress.  Indeed, 
sir,  I  wish  you  would  make  a  proper  submission  to  Mr. 
Thornhill :  it  may,  in  some  measure,  induce  him  to  pity 
you,  and  it  will  give  me  relief  in  dying." 

"  Never,  child,"  replied  I,  "  never  will  I  be  brought  to 
acknowledge  my  daughter  a  prostitute  ;  for  though  the 
world  may  look  upon  your  offence  with  scorn,  let  it  be 
mine  to  regard  it  as  a  mark  of  credulity,  not  of  guilt.  My 
dear,  I  am  no  way  miserable  in  this  place,  however  dismal 
it  may  seem  ;  and  be  assured  that,  while  you  continue  to 
bless  me  by  living,  he  shall  never  have  my  consent  to  make 
you  more  wretched  by  marrying  another." 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow-prisoner, 
who  was  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly  enough  expostulated 
upon  my  obstinacy  in  refusing  a  submission  which  pro- 
mised to  give  me  freedom.  He  observed  that  the  rest 
of  my  family  were  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  peace  of  one 
child  alone,  and  she  the  only  one  who  had  offended  me. 
"  Besides,"  added  he,  "  I  don't  know  if  it  be  just  thus  to 
obstruct  the  union  of  man  and  wife,  which  you  do  at 
present,  by  refusing  to  consent  to  a  match  which  you 
cannot  hfnder,  but  may  render  unhappy." 

"Sir,"  replied  I,  "you  are  unacquainted  with  the  mat) 


HAPPINESS  THE  RESULT  OF  PRUDENCE.  43. 

that  oppresses  us.  I  am  very  sensible  that  no  submission 
I  can  make  could  procure  me  liberty  even  for  an  hour.  I 
am  told  that,  even  in  this  very  room,  a  debtor  of  his,  no 
later  than  last  year,  died  for  want.  But  though  my  sub- 
mission and  approbation  could  transfer  me  from  hence  to 
the  most  beautiful  apartment  he  is  possessed  of,  yet  I 
would  grant  neither,  as  something  whispers  me  that  it 
would  be  giving  a  sanction  to  adultery.  While  my 
daughter  lives,  no  other  marriage  of  his  shall  ever  be  legal 
in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed,  indeed,  I  should  be  the 
basest  of  men,  from  any  resentment  of  my  own,  to  attempt 
putting  asunder  those  who  wish  for  a  union.  No  ;  villain 
as  he  is,  I  should  even  wish  him  married,  to  prevent  the 
consequences  of  his  future  debaucheries.  But'  now  should 
I  not  be  the  most  cruel  of  fathers  to  sign  an  instrument 
which  must  send  my  child  to  the  grave,  merely  to  avoid  a 
prison  myself;  and  thus,  to  escape  one  pang,  break  my 
child's  heart  with  a  thousand  ?" 

He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but  could 
not  avoid  observing  that  he  feared  my  daughter's  life  was 
already  too  much  wasted  to  keep  me  long  a  prisoner. 
"However,"  continued  he,  "though  you  refuse  to  submit 
to  the  nephew,  I  hope  you  have  no  objection  to  laying 
your  case  before  the  uncle,  who  has  the  first  character  in 
the  kingdom  for  everything  that  is  just  and  good.  I  wouh 
advise  you  to  send  him  a  letter  by  the  post,  intimatin^ 
all  his  nephew's  ill-usage  ;  and,  my  life  for  it,  that  in  thret 
days  you  shall  have  an  answer." 

I  thanked  him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly  set  about  com 


432  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

plying ;  but  I  wanted  paper,  and  unluckily  all  our  money 
had  been  laid  out  that  morning  in  provisions.  However, 
he  supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I  was  in  a  state  of  anxiety 
to  know  what  reception  my  letter  might  meet  with  ;  but 
in  the  meantime  was  frequently  solicited  by  my  wife  to 
submit  to  any  conditions  rather  than  remain  here,  and 
every  hour  received  repeated  accounts  of  the  decline  of  my 
daughter's  health.  The  third  day  and  the  fourth  arrived, 
but  I  received  no  answer  to  my  letter :  the  complaints  of 
a  stranger  against  a  favourite  nephew  were  no  way  likely 
to  succeed ;  so  that  these  hopes  soon  vanished,  like  all 
my  former.  My  mind,  however,  still  supported  itself, 
though  confinement  and  bad  air  began  to  make  a  little 
alteration  in  my  health,  and  my  arm  that  had  suffered 
in  the  fire  grew  worse.  My  children,  however,  sat  by  me, 
and  while  I  was  stretched  on  my  straw  read  to  me  by 
turns,  or  listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions :  but  my 
daughter's  health  declining  faster  than  mine,  every 
message  from  her  contributed  to  increase  my  apprehension 
and  pain.  The  fifth  morning  after  I  had  written  the  letter 
which  was  sent  Sir  William  Thornhill,  I  was  alarmed  with 
an  account  that  she  was  speechless.  Now  it  was  that 
confinement  was  truly  painful  to  me  ;  my  soul  was  burst- 
ing from  its  prison  to  be  near  the  pillow  of  my  child,  to 
comfort,  to  strengthen  her,  to  receive  her  last  wishes,  and 
teach  her  soul  the  way  to  heaven.  Another  account  came, 
she  was  expiring,  and  yet  I  was  debarred  the  small  com- 
fort of  weeping  by  her.  My  tellow-prisoner  some  time 


ffAPPltfESS  THE  RESULl  OF  PRUDENCE.  433 

after  came  with  the  last  account,  he  bade  me  be  patient — 
she  was  dead  !  The  next  morning  he  returned  and  found 
me  with  my  two  little  ones,  now  my  only  companions, 
who  were  using  all  their  innocent  efforts  to  comfort  me. 
They  entreated  to  read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  cry,  for 
I  was  now  too  old  to  weep.  "  And  is  not  my  sister  an 
angel  now,  papa  ?"  cried  the  elder ;  "  and  why  then  are 
you  sorry  for  her  ?  I  wish  I  were  an  angel,  out  of  this 
frightful  place,  if  my  papa  were  with  me." — "  Yes,"  added 
my  younger  darling,  "  heaven,  where  my  sister  is,  is  a  finer 
place  than  this ;  and  there  are  none  but  good  people  there, 
and  the  people  here  are  very  bad." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prattle  by  ob- 
serving that,  now  my  daughter  was  no  more,  I  should 
seriously  think  of  the  rest  of  my  family,  and  attempt  tc 
save  my  own  life,  which  was  every  day  declining  for  want 
of  necessaries  and  wholesome  air.  He  added  that  it  was 
now  incumbent  on  me  to  sacrifice  any  pride  or  resentment 
of  my  own  to  the  welfare  of  those  who  depended  on  me 
for  support ;  and  that  I  was  now,  both  by  reason  anc 
justice,  obliged  to  try  to  reconcile  my  landlord. 

"  Heaven  be  praised  !"  replied  I ;  "  there  is  no  pride  left 
me  now.  I  should  detest  my  own  heart  if  I  saw  eithei 
pride  or  resentment  lurking  there.  On  the  contrary,  as 
my  oppressor  has  been  once  my  parishioner,  I  hope  one 
day  to  present  him  up  an  unpolluted  soul  at  the  eternal 
tribunal.  No,  sir,  I  have  no  resentment  now  ;  and  though 
he  has  taken  from  me  what  I  held  dearer  than  all  his 

treasures,  though  he  has  wrung  my  heart  (for  1  am  sick 

28 


434  THE  VICAR  Of  WAXEFlELD. 

almost  to  fainting,  very  sick),  my  fellow-prisoner,  yet  that 
shall  never  inspire  me  with  vengeance.  I  am  now  willing 
to  approve  his  marriage  ;  and  if  this  submission  can  do  him 
any  pleasure,  let  him  know  that  if  I  have  done  him  any 
injury  I  am  sorry  for  it"  Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink, 
and  wrote  down  my  submission  nearly  as  I  have  expressed 
it,  to  which  I  signed  my  name.  My  son  was  employed  to 
carry  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  was  then  at  his  seat 
in  the  country.  He  went,  and  in  about  six  hours  returned 
with  a  verbal  answer.  He  had  some  difficulty,  he  said,  to 
get  a  sight  of  his  landlord,  as  the  servants  were  insolent 
and  suspicious ;  but  he  accidentally  saw  him  as  he  was 
going  out  upon  business,  preparing  for  his  marriage,  which 
was  to  be  in  three  days.  He  continued  to  inform  us  that 
he  stepped  up  in  the  humblest  manner  and  delivered  the 
letter,  which,  when  Mr.  Thornhill  had  read,  he  said  that  all 
submission  was  now  too  late  and  unnecessary  ;  that  he  had 
heard  of  our  application  to  his  uncle,  which  met  with  the 
contempt  it  deserved  ;  and  as  for  the  rest,  that  all  future 
applications  should  be  directed  to  his  attorney,  not  to  him. 
He  observed,  however,  that  as  he  had  a  very  good  opinion 
of  the  discretion  of  the  two  young  ladies,  they  might  have 
been  the  most  agreeable  intercessors. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I  to  my  fellow-prisoner,  "you  now  dis- 
cover the  temper  of  the  man  who  oppresses  me.  He  can 
at  once  be  I'acetious  and  cruel ;  but  let  him  use  me  as  he 
will,  I  shall  soon  be  free,  in  spite  of  all  his  bolts  to  restrain 
me.  I  am  now  drawing  towards  an  abode  that  looks 
brighter  as  I  approach  it:  this  expectation  cheers  my 


KAPPINESS  THE  RESULT  of  PRUDENCE.          435 

afflictions;  and  though  I  leave  a  helpless  family  of 
orphans  behind  me,  yet  they  will  not  be  utterly  forsaken  ; 
some  friend,  perhaps,  will  be  found  to  assist  them  for  the 
sake  of  their  poor  father,  and  some  may  charitably  relieve 
them  for  the  sake  of  their  heavenly  Father." 

Just  as  I  spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I  had  not  seen  that  day 
before,  appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and  making  efforts, 
but  unable  to  speak.  "  Why,  my  love,"  cried  I — "  why 
will  you  thus  increase  my  afflictions  by  your  own  ?  What 
though  no  submission  can  turn  our  severe  master,  though 
he  has  doomed  me  to  die  in  this  place  of  wretchedness,  and 
though  we  have  lost  a  darling  child  ?  yet  you  will  find 
comfort  in  your  other  children  when  I  shall  be  no  more." — 
"  We  have  indeed  lost,"  returned  she,  "  a  darling  child ! 
My  Sophia,  my  dearest,  is  gone ;  snatched  from  us,  carried 
off  by  ruffians !" 

"  How,  madam  !"  cried  my  fellow-prisoner  ;  "  Miss  Sophia 
carried  off  by  villains  ?  Sure  it  cannot  be  !" 

She  could  only  answer  with  a  fixed  look  and  a  flood  of 
tears  ;  but  one  of  the  prisoners'  wives,  who  was  present  and 
came  in  with  her,  gave  us  a  more  distinct  account 
She  informed  us,  that  as  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and 
herself  were  taking  a  walk  together  on  the  great  road, 
a  little  way  out  of  the  village,  a  post-chaise  and  pair  drove 
up  to  them  and  instantly  stopped  ;  upon  which  a  well- 
dressed  man,  but  not  Mr.  Thornhill,  stepping  out,  clasped 
ray  daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing  her  in,  bade 
the  postillion  drive  on,  so  that  they  were  out  of  sight  in  a 
moment 


fff£  VICAR  OP 


"  Now,"  cried  I,  "'the  sum  of  my  miseries  is  made  up, 
nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  anything  on  earth  to  give  me 
another  pang.  What  !  not  one  left  !  not  leave  me  one  ? 
the  monster  !  The  child  that  was  next  my  heart  !  she  had 
the  beauty  of  an  angel,  and  almost  the  wisdom  of  an  angel. 
But  support  that  woman,  nor  let  her  fall.  Not  to  leave  me 
one  !  Not  to  leave  me  one  !" 

"  Alas,  my  husband  !"  said  my  wife,  "  you  seem  to  want 
comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses  are  great  ;  but 
I  could  bear  this,  and  more,  if  I  saw  you  but  easy.  They 
may  take  away  my  children,  and  all  the  world,  if  they 
leave  me  but  you." 

My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavoured  to  moderate 
her  grief  ;  he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he  hoped  that  we 
might  still  have  reason  to  be  thankful.  "  My  child,"  cried 
I,  "  look  round  the  world,  and  see  if  there  be  any 
happiness  left  me  now.  Is  not  every  ray  of  comfort  shut 
out  ?  while  all  our  bright  prospects  only  lie  beyond  the 
grave." 

"  My  dear  father,"  returned  he,  "  I  hope  there  is  still 
something  that  will  give  you  an  interval  of  satisfaction  ; 
for  I  have  a  letter  from  my  brother  George." 

"  What  of  him,  my  child  ?"  interrupted  I  ;  "  does  he 
know  our  misery  ?  I  hope  my  boy  is  exempt  from  any 
part  of  what  the  wretched  family  suffers." 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  he,  "he  is  perfectly  gay,  cheerful, 
and  happy.  His  letter  brings  nothing  but  good  news  ;  he 
is  the  favourite  of  his  colonel,  who  promises  to  procure  him 
the  very  next  lieutenancy  that  becomes  vacant" 


THE  RESULT  OF  PKUDENC&. 


"  But  are  you  sure  of  all  this  ?"  cried  my  wife  ;  "  are 
you  sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my  boy  ?"  —  "  No- 
thing, indeed,  madam,"  returned  my  son  :  "  you  shall 
see  the  letter,  which  will  give  you  the  highest  pleasure  , 
and  if  anything  can  procure  comfort,  I  am  sure  that  will." 
—  "  But  are  you  sure,"  still  repeated  she,  "  that  the  letter 
is  from  himself,  and  that  he  is  really  so  happy  ?"  —  "  Yes, 
madam,"  replied  he,  "it  is  certainly  his,  and  he  will  one 
day  be  the  credit  and  the  support  of  our  family."  —  "  Then 
I  thank  Providence,"  cried  she,  "  that  my  last  letter  to 
him  has  miscarried.  Yes,  my  dear,"  continued  she,  turn- 
ing to  me,  "  I  will  now  confess,  that  though  the  hand  of 
Heaven  is  sore  upon  us  in  other  instances,  it  has  been 
favourable  here.  By  the  last  letter  I  wiote  my  son,  which 
was  in  the  bitterness  of  anger,  I  desired  him,  upon  his 
mother's  blessing,  and  if  he  had  the  heart  of  a  man,  to 
see  justice  done  his  father  and  sister,  and  avenge  our 
cause  ;  but,  thanks  be  to  Him  who  directs  all  things,  it 
has  miscarried,  and  I  am  at  rest"  —  "  Woman,"  cried  I, 
"  thou  hast  done  very  ill,  and  at  another  time  my  re- 
proaches might  have  been  more  severe.  Oh,  what  a 
tremendous  gulf  hast  thou  escaped,  that  would  have  buried 
both  thee  and  him  in  endless  ruin  !  Providence,  indeed, 
has  here  been  kinder  to  us  than  we  to  ourselves  :  it  has 
reserved  that  son  to  be  the  father  and  protector  of  my 
children  when  I  shall  be  away.  How  unjustly  did  I 
complain  of  being  stripped  of  every  comfort,  when  still  I 
hear  that  he  is  happy,  and  insensible  of  our  afflictions  ; 
still  kept  in  reserve  to  support  his  widowed  mother,  and 


438  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


to  protect  his  brothers  and  sisters !  But  what  sisters  has 
he  left  ?  He  has  no  sisters  now ;  they  are  all  gone, 
robbed  from  me,  and  I  am  undone  1" 

"Father,"  interrupted  my  son,  "I  beg  you  will  give 
me  leave  to  read  this  letter;  I  know  it  will  please 
you."  Upon  which,  with  my  permission,  he  read  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"HONOURED  SIR, — I  have  called  off  my  imagination 
a  few  moments  from  the  pleasures  that  surround  me  to 
fix  it  upon  objects  that  are  still  more  pleasing,  the  dear 
little  fireside  at  home.  My  fancy  draws  that  harmless 
group  as  listening  to  every  line  of  this  with  great  com- 
posure. I  view  those  faces  with  delight,  which  never  felt 
the  deforming  hand  of  ambition  or  distress.  But,  whatever 
your  happiness  may  be  at  home,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  some 
addition  to  it  to  hear  that  I  am  perfectly  pleased  with  my 
situation,  and  every  way  happy  here. 

"  Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  to  leave 
the  kingdom.  The  colonel,  who  professes  himself  my 
friend,  takes  me  with  him  to  all  companies  where  he  is 
acquainted ;  and,  after  my  first  visit,  I  generally  find 
myself  received  with  increased  respect  upon  repeating  it. 

I  danced  last  night  with  Lady  G ,  and  could  I  forget 

you  know  whom,  I  might  be  perhaps  successful  :  but  it  is 
my  fate  still  to  remember  others  while  I  am  myself  forgotten 
by  most  of  my  absent  friends, — and  in  this  number,  I  fear, 
sir,  that  I  must  consider  you,  for  I  have  long  expected  the 
pleasure  of  a  letter  from  home  to  no  purpose.  Olivia  and 


HAPPINESS  THE  RESULT  OF  PRUDENCE.  439 

Sophia,  too,  promised  to  write,  but  seem  to  have  forgotten 
me.  Tell  them  that  they  are  two  arrant  little  baggages, 
and  that  I  am  this  moment  in  a  most  violent  passion  with 
them  ;  yet  still,  I  know  not  how,  though  I  want  to  bluster 
a  little,  my  heart  is  respondent  only  to  softer  emotions. 
Then  tell  them,  sir,  that  after  all,  I  love  them  affection- 
ately, and  be  assured  of  my  ever  remaining  your  dutiful 
son." 

"  In  all  our  miseries,"  cried  I,  *  what  thanks  have  we 
not  to  return  that  one  at  least  of  our  family  is  exempted 
from  what  we  suffer !  Heaven  be  his  guard,  and  keep 
my  boy  thus  happy,  to  be  the  support  of  his  widowed 
mother,  and  the  father  of  these  two  babes,  which  is  all 
the  patrimony  I  can  now  bequeath  him  !  May  he  keep 
their  innocence  from  the  temptations  of  want,  and  be  their 
conductor  in  the  paths  of  honour !"  I  had  scarcely  said 
these  words  when  a  noise  like  that  of  a  tumult  seemed 
to  proceed  from  the  prison  below :  it  died  away  soon  after, 
and  a  clanking  of  fetters  was  heard  along  the  passage  that 
led  to  my  apartment.  The  keeper  of  the  prison  entered, 
holding  a  man  all  bloody,  wounded,  and  fettered  with  the 
heaviest  irons.  I  looked  with  compassion  upon  the  wretch 
as  he  approached  me,  but  with  horror  when  I  found  it  was 
my  own  son.  "  My  George !  my  George !  and  do  I 
behold  thee  thus  ?  wounded !  fettered !  Is  this  thy 
happiness  ?  Is  this  the  manner  you  return  to  me  ?  Oh, 
that  this  sight  would  break  my  heart  at  once,  aad  let 
me  die  T 


440  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

"  Where,  sir,  is  your  fortitude  ?"  returned  my  son,  with 
an  intrepid  voice.  "  I  must  suffer ;  my  life  is  forfeited, 
and  let  them  take  it" 

I  tritd  to  restrain  my  passion  for  a  few  minutes  in 
silence,  but  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with  the  effort. 
"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  heart  weeps  "to  behold  thee  thus, 
and  I  cannot,  cannot  help  it !  In  the  moment  I  thought 
thee  blest,  and  prayed  for  thy  safety,  to  behold  thee 
thus  again,  chained,  wounded  !  And  yet  the  death  of  the 
youthful  is  happy  :  but  I  am  old,  a  very  old  man,  and 
have  lived  to  see  this  day  ;  to  see  my  children  all  un- 
timely falling  about  me,  while  I  continue  a  wretched 
survivor  in  the  midst  of  ruin !  May  all  the  curses  that 
ever  sunk  a  soul  fall  heavy  upon  the  murderer  of  my 
children !  May  he  live,  like  me,  to  see " 

"  Hold,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "or  I  shall  blush  for  thee. 
How,  sir !  forgetful  of  your  age,  your  holy  calling,  thus 
to  arrogate  the  justice  of  Heaven,  and  fling  those  curses 
upward,  that  must  soon  descend  to  crush  thy  own  grey 
head  with  destruction!  No,  sir,  let  it  be  your  care  now 
to  fit  me  for  that  vile  death  I  must  shortly  suffer  ;  to 
arm  me  with  hope  and  resolution  ;  to  give  me  courage 
to  drink  of  that  bitterness  which  must  shortly  be  my 
portion." 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  die !  I  am  sure  no  offence  of 
thine  can  deserve  so  vile  a  punishment.  My  George  could 
never  be  guilty  of  any  crime  to  make  his  ancestors  ashamed 
of  him." 


HAPPINESS  THE  RESULT  OF  PRUDENCE.  441 

"  Mine,  sir,"  returned  my  son,  "  is,  I  fear,  an  unpardon- 
able one.  When  I  received  my  mother's  letter  from 
home,  I  immediately  came  down,  determined  to  punish  the 
betrayer  of  our  honour,  and  sent  him  an  order  to  meet  me, 
which  he  answered,  not  in  person,  but  by  despatching  four 
of  his  domestics  to  seize  me.  I  wounded  one  who  first 
assaulted  me,  and  I  fear  desperately ;  but  the  rest  made 
me  their  prisoner.  The  coward  is  determined  to  put  the 
law  in  execution  against  me :  the  proofs  are  undeniable : 
I  have  sent  a  challenge ;  and,  as  I  am  the  first  aggressor 
upon  the  statute,  I  see  no  hopes  of  pardon.  But  you  have 
often  charmed  me  with  your  lessons  of  fortitude  ;  let  me 
now,  sir,  find  them  in  your  example." 

"  And,'  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I  am  now  raised 
above  this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it  can  produce. 
From  this  moment  I  break  from  my  heart  all  the  ties  that 
held  it  down  to  earth,  and  will  prepare  to  fit  us  both  for 
eternity.  Yes,  my  son,  I  will  point  out  the  way,  and  my 
soul  shall  guide  yours  in  the  ascent,  for  we  will  take  our 
flight  together.  I  now  see,  and  am  convinced,  you  can 
expect  no  pardon  here,  and  I  can  only  exhort  you  to  seek 
it  at  that  greatest  tribunal  where  we  shall  both  shortly 
answer.  But  let  us  not  be  niggardly  in  our  exhortations, 
but  let  all  our  fellow-prisoners  have  a  share.  Good  jailer, 
let  them  be  permitted  to  stand  here  while  I  attempt  to 
improve  them." 

Thus  saying,  I  made  an  effort  to  rise  from  the  straw, 
but  wanted  strength,  and  was  able  only  to  recline 


44*  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD, 

against  the  wall.  The  prisoners  assembled  according  to 
my  directions,  for  they  loved  to  hear  my  counsel  ;  my  son 
and  his  mother  supported  me  on  either  side  ;  I  looked  and 
saw  that  none  were  wanting,  and  then  addressed  them  with 
the  following  .exhortation. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE  EQUAL  DEALINGS  OF  PROVIDENCE  DEMONSTRATED  WITH  RE- 
GARD TO  THE  HAPPY  ANDTHE  MISERABLE  HERE  BELOW;  THAT. 
FROM  THE  NATURE  OF  PLEASURE  AND  PAIN,  THE  WRETCHED 
MUST  BE  REPAID  THE  BALANCE  OF  THEIR  SUFFERINGS  IN  Tm 
LIFE  HEREAFTER. 

Y  friends,  my  children,  and  fellow-sufferers 
when  I  reflect  on  the  distribution  of  good 
and  evil  here  below,  I  find  that  much  hac 
been  given  man  to  enjoy,  yet  still  more  to 
suffer.  Though  we  should  examine  the  whole  world,  we 
shall  not  find  one  man  so  happy  as  to  have  nothing  left  to 
wish  for  ;  but  we  daily  see  thousands  who  by  suicide  show 
us  they  have  nothing  left  to  hope.  In  this  life,  then,  it 
appears  that  we  cannot  be  entirely  blessed  ;  but  yet  we 
may  be  completely  miserable. 

"  Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain  ;  why  our  wretched- 
ness should  be  requisite  in  the  formation  of  universal 
feliri»y  ;  why.  when  all  other  systems  are  made  perfect  by 
the  perfection  of  their  subordinate  parts,  the  great  system 


444  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

should  require  for  its  perfection  parts  that  are  not  only 
subordinate  to  others,  but  imperfect  in  themselves ; — these 
are  questions  that  never  can  be  explained,  and  might  be 
useless  if  known.  On  this  subject  Providence  has  thought 
fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied  with  granting  us  motives 
to  consolation. 

44  In  this  situation  man  has  called  in  the  friendly  assist- 
ance of  philosophy  ;  and  Heaven,  seeing  the  incapacity  of 
that  to  console  him,  has  given  him  the  aid  of  religion. 
The  consolations  of  philosophy  are  very  amusing,  but  often 
fallacious  :  it  tells  us  that  life  is  filled  with  comforts  if  we 
will  but  enjoy  them  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  that  though 
we  unavoidably  have  miseries  here,  life  is  short,  and  they 
will  soon  be  over.  Thus  do  these  consolations  destroy 
each  other  ;  for  if  life  is  a  place  of  comfort,  its  shortness 
must  be  niisery,  and  if  it  be  long,  our  griefs  are  protracted. 
Thus  philosophy  is  weak ;  but  religion  comforts  in  a 
higher  strain.  Man  is  here,  it  tells  us,  fitting  up  his  mind, 
and  preparing  it  for  another  abode.  When  the  good  man 
leaves  the  body  and  is  all  a  glorious  mind,  he  will  find  he 
has  been  making  himself  a  heaven  of  happiness  here  ; 
while  the  wretch  that  has  been  maimed  and  contaminated 
by  his  vices,  shrinks  from  his  body  with  terror,  and  finds 
that  he  has  anticipated  the  vengeance  of  heaven.  To 
religion,  then,  we  must  hold,  in  every  circumstance  of  life, 
for  our  truest  comfort  ;  for  if  already  we  are  happy,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  think  that  we  can  make  that  happiness  un- 
ending,— and  if  we  are  miserable,  it  is  very  consoling  to 
think  that  there  is  a  place  of  rest  Thus,  to  the  fortunate, 


THE  DEALINGS  OF  PRO  VIDENCE  DEMONSTRA  TED.       445 

religion  holds  out  a  continuance  of  bliss  ;  to  the  wretched, 
a  change  from  pain. 

"  But  though  religion  is  very  kind  to  all  men,  it  has 
promised  peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy :  the  sick,  the 
naked,  the  houseless,  the  heavy  laden,  and  the  prisoner, 
have  ever  most  frequent  promises  in  our  sacred  law.  The 
Author  of  our  religion  everywhere  professes  Himself  the 
wretch's  Friend  ;  and,  unlike  the  false  ones  of  this  world, 
bestows  all  his  caresses  upon  the  forlorn.  The  unthinking 
have  censured  this  as  partiality — as  a  preference  without 
merit  to  deserve  it;  but  they  never  reflect  that  it  is  not  in  the 
power  even  of  Heaven  itself  to  make  the  offer  of  unceasing 
felicity  as  great  a  gift  to  the  happy  as  to  the  miserable. 
To  the  first,  eternity  is  but  a  single  blessing,  since  at  most 
it  but  increases  what  they  already  possess ;  to  the  latter  it 
is  a  double  advantage,  for  it  diminishes  their  pain  here, 
and  rewards  them  with  heavenly  bliss  hereafter. 

"  But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder  to  the  poor 
than  to  the  rich  ;  for  as  it  thus  makes  the  life  after  death 
more  desirable,  so  it  smooths  the  passage  there.  The 
wretched  have  had  a  lon^  familiarity  with  every  face  of 
terror.  The  man  of  sorrow  lays  himself  quietly  down, 
with  no  possessions  to  regret,  and  but  few  ties  to  stop  his 
departure  ;  he  feels  only  nature's  pang  in  the  final  separ- 
ation, and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he  has  often  fainted 
under  before ;  for,  after  a  certain  degree  of  pain,  every  new 
breach  that  death  opens  in  the  constitution  nature  kindly 
covers  with  insensibility. 

"Thus  Providence  has  given  to  the  wretched  two  advan- 


446  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

tages  over  the  happy  in  this  life, — greater  felicity  in  dying, 
and  in  heaven  all  that  superiority  of  pleasure  which  arise? 
from  contrasted  enjoyment.  And  this  superiority,  my 
friends,  is  no  small  advantage,  and  seems  to  be  one  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  poor  man  in  the  parable  ;  for  though  he 
was  already  in  Heaven,  and  felt  all  the  raptures  it  could 
give,  yet  it  was  mentioned,  as  an  addition  to  his  happiness, 
that  he  had  once  been  wretched,  and  now  was  comforted  ; 
that  he  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  miserable,  and  now 
felt  what  it  was  to  be  happy. 

"Thus,    my  friends,  you   see   religion  does   what   phi- 
losophy could  never  do :  it  shows  the  equal  dealings  of 
Heaven  to  the  happy  and  the  unhappy,  and   levels   all 
human  enjoyments  to  nearly  the  same  standard  ;  it  gives 
to  both  rich  and  poor  the  same  happiness  hereafter,  and 
equal  hopes  to  aspire  after  it :    but  if  the   rich  have  the 
advantage  of  enjoying  pleasure  here,   the  poor   have  the 
endless  satisfaction  of  knowing  what  it  was  once  to  be  miser- 
able, when  crowned  with  endless  felicity  hereafter:  and  eve 
though  this  should  be  called  a  small  advantage,  yet,  bei 
an  eternal  one,  it  must  make   up  by  duration  what 
temporal  happiness  of  the  great  may  have  exceeded 
intenseness. 

"  These  are  therefore  the  consolations  which  the  wretch 
have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which  they  are  above 
the  rest  of  mankind ;  in  other  respects  they  are  below 
them.  They  who  would  know  the  miseries  of  the  poor 
must  see  life  and  endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal 
advantages  they  enjoy  is  only  repeating  what  none  either 


THE  DEALINGS  OF  PROVIDENCE  DEMONSTRA  TED.     44» 

believe  or  practise.  The  men  who  have  the  necessaries  of 
living  are  not  poor,  and  they  who  want  them  must  be 
miserable.  Yes,  my  friends,  we  must  be  miserable.  Nc 
vain  efforts  of  a  refined  imagination  can  soothe  the  wants 
of  nature,  can  give  elastic  sweetness  to  the  dark  vapour  of 
a  dungeon,  or  ease  the  throbbings  of  a  broken  heart.  Let 
the  philosopher  from  his  couch  of  softness  tell  us  we  can 
resist  all  these.  Alas !  the  effort  by  which  we  resist  them 
is  still  the  greatest  pain.  Death  is  slight,  and  any  man 
may  sustain  it ;  but  torments  are  dreadful,  and  these  no 
man  can  endure. 

"To  us,  then,  my  friends,  the  promises  of  happiness  in 
heaven  should  be  peculiarly  dear ;  for  if  our  reward  be  in 
this  life  alone,  we  are  indeed  of  all  men  the  most  miser- 
able. When  I  look  round  these  gloomy  walls,  made  to 
terrify  as  well  as  to  confine  us — this  light  that  only  serves 
to  show  the  horrors  of  the  place — those  shackles,  that 
tyranny  has  imposed  or  crime  made  necessary — when  I 
survey  these  emaciated  looks  and  hear  those  groans,  oh, 
my  friends,  what  a  glorious  exchange  would  heaven  be  for 
these  !  To  fly  through  regions  unconfined  as  air — to  bask 
in  the  sunshine  of  eternal  bliss — to  carol  over  endless 
hymns  of  praise — to  have  no  master  to  threaten  or  insult 
us,  but  the  form  of  Goodness  himself  for  ever  in  our  eyes, 
—  when  I  think  of  these  things,  death  becomes  the 
messenger  of  very  glad  tidings ;  when  I  think  of  these 
things,  his  sharpest  arrow  becomes  the  staff  of  my  sup- 
port ;  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what  is  there  in  life 
worth  having  ?  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what  is  there 


44?  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

that  should  not  be  spurned  away  ?  Kings  in  their  palaces 
should  groan  for  such  advantages ;  but  we,  humbled  as  we 
are,  should  yearn  for  them. 

"And  sliall  these  things  be  ours?  Ours  they  will  cer- 
tainly be  if  we  but  try  for  them  ;  and  what  is  a  comfort, 
we  are  shut  out  from  many  temptations  that  would  retard 
our  pursuit  Only  let  us  try  for  them  and  they  will  cer- 
tainly be  ours,  and  what  is  still  a  comfort,  shortly  too  ;  for  if 
AC  look  back  on  past  life,  it  appears  but  a  very  short  span, 
and  whatever  we  may  think  of  the  rest  of  life,  it  will  yet  be 
found  of  less  duration  :  as  we  grow  older  the  days  seem  to 
grow  shorter,  and  our  intimacy  with  time  ever  lessens  the 
perception  of  his  stay.  Then  let  us  take  comfort  now,  for 
we  shall  soon  be  at  our  journey's  end — we  shall  soon  lay 
down  the  heavy  burden  laid  by  Heaven  upon  us  ;  and 
though  death,  the  only  friend  of  the  wretched,  for  a  little 
while  mocks  the  weary  traveller  with  the  view,  and  like  the 
horizon,  still  flies  before  him,  yet  the  time  will  certainly 
and  shortly  come  when  we  shall  cease  from  our  toil, — 
when  the  luxuriant  great  ones  of  the  world  shall  no  more 
tread  us  to  the  earth, — when  we  shall  think  with  pleasure 
of  our  sufferings  below,  —  when  we  shall  be  surrounded 
with  all  our  friends,  or  such  as  deserved  our  friendship, — 
when  our  bliss  shall  be  unutterable,  and  still,  to  crown  *ii, 
unending." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


HAPPIER  PROSPECTS  BEGIN  TO  APPEAR.       LET   US    BB  INFIEX1BLK, 
AND    FORTUNE    WILL   AT   LAST  CHANGE   IN    OUR    FAVOUR. 

]HEN  I  had  thus  finished,  and  my  audience  was 
retired,  the  jailer,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
humane  of  his  profession,  hoped  I  would  not 
be  displeased,  as  what  he  did  was  but  his  duty ; 
observing  he  must  remove  my  son  into  a  stronger  cell,  but 
he  should  be  permitted  to  visit  me  every  morning.  I 
thanked  him  for  his  clemency,  and  grasping  my  boy's 
hand,  bade  him  farewell,  and  be  mindful  of  the  great  duty 
that  was  before  him. 

I  again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my  little 
ones  sat  by  my  bedside  reading,  when  Mr.  Jenkinson, 
entering,  informed  me  that  there  was  news  of  my 
daughter ;  for  that  she  was  seen  by  a  person  about  two 
hours  before  in  a  strange  gentleman's  company,  ar.d  that 
they  had  stopped  at  a  neighbouring  village  for  refresh- 
ment, and  seemed  as  if  returnmg  to  town.  He  had  scarce 

delivered  this  news,  when  the  jailer  came,  with  looks  ol 

29 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


haste  and  pleasure,  to  inform  me  that  my  daughter  was 
founu.  Moses  came  running  in  a  moment  after,  crying 
out  that  his  sister  Sophy  was  below,  and  coming  up  with 
our  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  delivered  this  news  my  dearest  girl  entered, 
and,  with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure,  ran  to  kiss  me 
in  a  transport  of  affection.  Her  mother's  tears  and 
silence  also  showed  her  pleasure. 

"  Here,  papa,"  cried  the  charming  girl,  "  here  is  the 
brave  man  to  whom  I  owe  my  delivery  ;  to  this  gentle- 
man's intrepidity  I  am  indebted  for  my  happiness  and 
safety." 

A  kiss  from  Mr.  Burchell,  whose  pleasure  seemed  even 
greater  than  hers,  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to 
add. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Burchell  !"  cried  I,  "  this  is  but  a  wretched 
habitation  you  find  us  in  ;  and  we  are  now  very  different 
from  what  you  last  saw  us.  You  were  ever  our  friend  ; 
we  have  long  discovered  our  errors  with  regard  to  you,  and 
repented  of  our  ingratitude.  After  the  vile  usage  you 
then  received  at  my  hands,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  be- 
hold your  face  ;  yet  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  as  I  was 
deceived  by  a  base,  ungenerous  wretch,  who,  under  the 
mask  of  friendship,  has  undone  me." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  replied  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that  I  should 
forgive  you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  resentment.  I 
partly  saw  your  delusion  then  ;  and,  as  it  was  out  of  my 
power  to  restrain,  I  could  only  pity  it" 

44  It  was  ever  my  conjecture  "  cried  I.  "  that  your  mind 


HAPPIER  PROSPECTS  BEGIN  TO  APPEAR.  45» 

was  noble  ;  but  now  I  find  it  so. — But  tell  me,  my  deai 
child,  how  hast  thou  been  relieved,  or  who  the  ruffians  wert 
that  carried  thee  away  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  *  as  to  the  villain  that  carried 
me  off,  I  am  yet  ignorant ;  for,  as  my  mamma  and  I  were 
walking  out,  he  came  behind  us,  and,  almost  before  I  could 
call  for  help,  forced  me  into  the  post-chaise,  and  in  an 
instant  the  horses  drove  away.  I  met  several  on  the  road, 
to  whom  I  cried  out  for  assistance  ;  but  they  disregarded 
my  entreaties.  In  the  meantime,  the  ruffian  himself  used 
every  art  to  hinder  me  from  crying  out :  he  flattered  and 
threatened  me  by  turns,  and  swore  that,  if  I  continued  but 
silent  he  intended  no  harm.  In  the  meantime  I  had  broken 
the  canvas  that  he  had  drawn  up,  and  whom  should  I 
perceive  at  some  distance  but  your  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 
walking  along  with  his  usual  swiftness  with  the  great  stick, 
for  which  we  used  so  much  to  ridicule  him !  As  soon  as 
we  came  within  hearing,  I  called  out  to  him  by  name 
and  entreated  his  help.  I  repeated  my  exclamation?- 
several  times  ;  upon  which,  with  a  very  loud  voice,  he 
bade  the  postillion  stop  :  but  the  boy  took  no  notice,  but 
drove  on  with  still  greater  speed.  I  now  thought  he  could 
never  overtake  us,  when  in  less  than  a  minute  I  saw  Mr 
Burchell  come  running  up  by  the  side  of  the  horses,  and 
with  one  blow  knock  the  postillion  to  the  ground.  The 
horses,  when  he  was  fallen,  soon  stopped  of  themselves  , 
and  the  ruffian  stepping  out,  with  oaths  and  menaces, 
drew  his  sword,  and  ordered  him  at  his  peril  to  retire; 
but  Mr.  Burchell,  running  up,  shivered  his  sword  to  pieces, 


45*  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

and  then  pursued  him  for  near  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ;  but  he 
made  his  escape.  I  was  at  this  time  come  out  myself,  willing 
to  assist  my  deliverer ;  but  he  soon  returned  to  me  in 
triumph.  The  postillion,  who  was  recovered,  was  going  to 
make  his  escape  too ;  but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him  at  his 
peril  to  mount  again  and  drive  back  to  town.  Finding  it 
impossible  to  resist,  he  reluctantly  complied,  though  the 
wound  he  had  received  seemed,  to  me  at  least,  to  be 
dangerous.  He  continued  to  complain  of  the  pain  as  we 
drove  along,  so  that  he  at  last  excited  Mr.  Burchell 's  com- 
passion ;  who,  at  my  request,  exchanged  him  for  another 
at  an  inn  where  we  called  on  our  return." 

"  Welcome,  then,"  cried  I,  "  my  child  ;  and  thou,  her 
gallant  deliverer,  a  thousand  welcomes !  Though  out 
cheer  is  but  wretched,  yet  our  hearts  are  ready  to  receive 
you. — And  now,  Mr.  Burchell,  as  you  have  delivered  my 
girl,  if  you  think  her  a  recompence,  she  is  yours  :  if  you 
can  stoop  to  an  alliance  with  a  family  so  poor  as  mine, 
take  her;  obtain  her  consent,  as  I  know  you  have  her 
neart,  and  you  have  mine :  and  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  I 
give  you  no  small  treasure :  she  has  been  celebrated  for 
beauty,  it  is  true  :  but  that  is  not  my  meaning :  I  give  you 
a  treasure  in  her  mind." 

"  But  I  suppose,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that  you  are 
apprised  of  my  circumstances,  and  of  my  incapacity  to 
support  her  as  she  deserves  ?" 

"  If  your  present  objection,"  replied  I,  "  be  meant  as  an 
evasion  of  my  oftet,  i  desist ;  but  1  know  no  man  so 
worthy  to  deserve  her  as  you  ,  and  if  I  could  £ive  her 


HAPPIER  PROSPECTS  BEGIN  TO  APPEAR.  453 

thousands,  and  thousands  sought   her  from  me,  yet  my 
honest,  brave  Burchell  should  be  my  dearest  choice." 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a  mortifying 
refusal  ;  and  without  the  least  reply  to  my  offer,  he 
demanded  if  we  could  not  be  furnished  with  refreshments 
from  the  next  inn ;  to  which  being  answered  in  the 
affirmative,  he  ordered  them  to  send  in  the  best  dinnei 
that  could  be  provided  upon  such  short  notice.  He  be- 
spoke also  a  dozen  of  their  best  wine,  and  some  cordials 
for  me ;  adding,  with  a  smile,  that  he  would  stretch  a  little 
for  once ;  and,  though  in  a  prison,  asserted  he  was  never 
more  disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter  soon  made  his 
appearance,  with  preparations  for  dinner ;  a  table  was 
lent  us  by  the  jailer,  who  seemed  remarkably  assiduous  ; 
the  wine  was  disposed  in  order ;  and  two  very  well-dressed 
dishes  were  brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor  brother's 
melancholy  situation,  and  we  all  seemed  unwilling  to  damp 
her  cheerfulness  by  the  relation ;  but  it  was  in  vain  that  I 
attempted  to  appear  cheerful :    the  circumstances  of  my 
unfortunate  son  arose  through  all  efforts  to  dissemble ;  so 
that  I  was  at  last  obliged  to  damp  our  mirth  by  relating 
his  misfortunes,  and   wishing   he   might   be  permitted   to 
share  with  us  in  this  little  interval  of  satisfaction.     After 
my   guests    were    recovered    trom    the   consternation   m\ 
account  had  produced,  I  requested  also  that  Mr.  Jen  kin 
son,  a  fellow- prisoner,  might  be  admitted ;  and  the  jailer 
granted  my  request  with  an  air  of  submission.     The  clank- 
ing  of  my  son's  irons  was  no  sooner  heard  along  the 


THE  VICAR  OF 


passage,  than  his  sister  ran  impatiently  to  meet  him  ; 
while  Mr.  Burchell  in  the  meantime  asked  me  if  my  son's 
name  was  George  ;  to  which  replying  in  the  affirmative, 
he  still  continued  silent.  As  soon  as  my  boy  entered  the 
room,  I  could  perceive  he  regarded  Mr.  Burchell  with  a 
look  of  astonishment  and  reverence.  M  Come  on,"  cried  I, 
"  my  son  :  though  we  are  very  low,  yet  Providence  has 
been  pleased  to  grant  us  some  small  relaxation  from  pain. 
Thy  sister  is  restored  to  us,  and  there  is  her  deliverer  :  to 
that  brave  man  it  is  that  I  am  indebted  for  yet  having  a 
da'ughter.  Give  him,  my  boy,  the  hand  of  friendship  :  he 
deserves  our  warmest  gratitude." 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what  I 
said,  and  still  continued  fixed  at  a  respectful  distance, 
"  My  dear  brother,"  cried  his  sister,  "  why  don't  you 
thank  my  good  deliverer  ?  The  brave  should  ever  love 
each  other." 

He  still  continued  his  silence  and  astonishment  ;  till 
our  guest  at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  known,  and, 
assuming  all  his  native  dignity,  desired  my  son  to  come 
forward.  Never  before  had  I  seen  anything  so  truly 
majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed  upon  this  occasion.  The 
greatest  object  in  the  universe,  says  a  certain  philosopher, 
is  a  good  man  struggling  with  adversity  ;  yet  there  is 
still  a  greater,  which  is,  the  good  man  that  comes  to  re- 
iieve  it. 

After  he  had  regarded  my  son  some  time  with  a  superior 
air,  "  I  again  find,"  said  he,  "  unthinking  boy,  that  the  same 
crime  —  "  But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  one  of  the 


HAPPIER  PROSPECTS  BEStN  TO  APPEAR.  4SS 

jailer's  servants,  who  came  to  inform  us  that  a  person  of 
distinction,  who  had  driven  into  town  with  a  chariot  and 
several  attendants,  sent  his  respects  to  the  gentleman  that 
was  with  us,  and  begged  to  know  when  he  should  think 
proper  to  be  waited  upon.  "  Bid  the  fellow  wait,"  cried 
our  guest,  "  till  I  shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him :"  and 
then,  turning  to  my  son,  "  I  again  find,  sir,"  proceeded  he, 
"that  you  are  guilty  of  the  same  offence  for  which  you 
once  had  my  reproof,  and  for  which  the  law  is  now  pre- 
paring its  justest  punishments.  You  imagine,  perhaps, 
that  a  contempt  for  your  own  life  gives  you  a  right  to 
take  that  of  another :  but  where,  sir,  is  the  difference 
between  a  duellist  who  hazards  a  life  of  no  value,  and  the 
murderer  who  acts  with  greater  security  ?  Is  it  any 
diminution  of  the  gamester's  fraud,  when  he  alleges  that 
he  staked  a  counter  ?" 

"  Alas,  sir !"  cried  I,  "  whoever  you  are,  pity  the  poor 
misguided  creature :  for  what  he  has  done  was  in 
obedience  to  a  deluded  mother,  who,  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  resentment,  required  him,  upon  her  blessing,  to 
avenge  her  quarrel.  Here,  sir,  is  the  letter,  which  will 
serve  to  convince  you  of  her  imprudence,  and  diminish  his 
guilt" 

He  took  the  letter,  and  hastily  read  it  over.  "This," 
says  he,  "  though  not  a  perfect  excuse,  is  such  a  palliation 
of  his  fault  as  induces  me  to  forgive  him.  And  now,  sir," 
continued  he,  kindly  taking  my  son  by  the  hand,  "  I  see 
you  are  surprised  at  finding  me  here ;  but  I  have  often 
visited  prisons  upon  occasions  less  interesting.  I  am  now 


THE  VICAR  OF 


come  to  see  justice  done  a  worthy  man  for  whom  I  have 
the  most  sincere  esteem.  I  have  long  been  a  disguised 
spectator  of  thy  father's  benevolence  :  I  have,  at  his  little 
dwelling,  enjoyed  respect  uncontaminated  by  flattery  ; 
and  h?ve  received  that  happiness  that  courts  could  not 
give,  from  the  amusing  simplicity  round  his  fireside.  My 
nephew  has  been  apprised  of  my  intentions  of  coming 
here,  and  I  find  he  is  arrived  ;  it  would  be  wronging  him 
and  you  to  condemn  him  without  examination  ;  if  there 
be  injury  there  shall  be  redress  ;  and  this  I  may  say  with- 
out boasting,  that  none  have  taxed  the  injustice  of  Sir 
William  Thornhill." 

We  now  found  that  the  personage  whom  we  had  long 
entertained  as  a  harmless,  amusing  companion  was  nc 
other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  William  Thornhill,  to  whose 
virtues  and  singularities  scarce  any  were  strangers.  The 
poor  Mr.  Burchell  was  in  reality  a  roan  of  large  fortune 
and  great  interest,  to  whom  senates  listened  with  applause, 
and  whom  party  heard  with  conviction  ;  who  was  the 
friend  of  his  country  but  loyal  to  his  king.  My  poor  wife, 
recollecting  her  former  familiarity,  seemed  to  shrink  with 
apprehension  ;  but  Sophia,  who  a  few  moments  before 
thought  him  her  own,  now  perceiving  the  immense  dis- 
tance to  which  he  was  removed  by  fortune,  was  not  able  to 
conceal  her  tears. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  cried  my  wife,  with  a  piteous  aspect,  "  how 
is  it  impossible  that  I  can  ever  have  your  forgiveness  ?  The 
slights  you  received  from  me  the  last  time  J  had  the 
honour  of  seeing  you  at  our  house,  and  the  jokes  which 


HAPPIER  PROSPECTS  BEGIN  TO  APPEAR.  45) 

I  audaciously  threw  out — these,  sir,  I  fear,  can  never  be 
forgiven." 

"My  dear  good  lady,"  returned  he  with  a  smile,  "H 
you  had  your  joke  I  had  my  answer  ;  I'll  leave  it  to  all  the 
company  if  mine  were  not  as  good  as  yours.  To  say 
the  truth,  I  know  nobody  whom  I  am  disposed  to  be 
angry  with  at  present,  but  the  fellow  who  so  frightened  my 
little  girl  here.  I  had  not  even  time  to  examine  the  rascal's 
person,  so  as  to  describe  him  in  an  advertisement.  Can 
you  tell  me,  Sophia,  my  dear,  whether  you  should  know 
him  again  ?"  . 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  I  cannot  be  positive ;  yet, 
now  I  recollect,  he  had  a  large  mark  over  one  of  his 
eyebrows." — "I  ask  pardon,  madam,"  interrupted  Jenkin- 
son,  who  was  by  ;  but  be  so  good  as  to  inform  me  if  the 
fellow  wore  his  own  red  hair." — "  Yes,  I  think  so,"  cried 
Sophia. — "  And  did  your  honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to 
Sir  William,  "  observe  the  length  of  his  legs  ?" — "  I  can't 
be  sure  of  their  length,"  cried  the  baronet ;  "  but  I  am 
convinced  of  their  swiftness,  for  he  outran  me,  which  is 
what  I  thought  few  men  in  the  kingdom  could  have  done." 
— "  Please  your  honour,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "  I  know  the 
man  ;  it  is  certainly  the  same — the  best  runner  in  England  : 
he  has  beaten  Pinwire  of  Newcastle.  Timothy  Baxter  is 
his  name  ;  I  kr.ow  him  perfectly,  and  the  very  place  of 
his  retreat  this  moment.  If  your  honour  will  bid  Mr. 
Jailer  let  two  of  his  men  go  with  me,  I'll  engage  to  pro- 
duce him  to  you  in  an  hour  at  farthest"  Upon  this  the 
jailer  was  called  in,  who  instantly  appearing.  Sir  William 


458  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

demanded  if  he  knew  him.  "Yes,  please  your  honour," 
replied  the  jailer,  "  I  know  Sir  William  Thornhill  well  ; 
and  everybody  that  knows  anything  of  him  will  desire  to 
know  more  of  him." — "  Well,  then,"  said  the  baronet,  "  my 
request  is  that  you  will  permit  this  man  and  two  of  your 
servants  to  go  upon  a  message  by  my  authority  ;  and  as  I 
am  in  the  commission  of  the  peace  I  undertake  to  secure 
you." — "  Your  promise  is  sufficient,"  replied  the  other  ; 
"  and  you  may,  a*  a  minute's  warning,  send  them  over 
England,  whenever  your  honour  thinks  fit." 

In  pursuance,  of  the  jailer's  compliance,  Jenkinson  was 
despatched  in  pursuit  of  Timothy  Baxter,  while  we  were 
amused  with  the  assiduity  of  our  youngest  boy  Bill,  who 
had  just  come  in,  and  climbed  up  to  Sir  William's  neck  in 
order  to  kiss  him.  His  mother  was  immediately  going  to 
chastise  his  familiarity,  but  the  worthy  man  prevented  her  ; 
and  taking  the  child,  all  ragged  as  he  was,  .pon  his  knee 
— "  What,  Bill,  you  chubby  rogue  !"  cried  he,  "  do  you  re- 
member your  old  friend  Burchell  ? — And,  Dick,  too,  my 
honest  veteran,  are  you  here  ?  You  shall  find  I  have  not 
forgot  you."  So  saying,  he  gave  each  a  large  piece  of 
ginger-bread,  which  the  poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily,  a-* 
they  had  got  that  morning  but  a  very  scanty  breakfast. 

We  now  sat  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost  cold  , 
but  previously,  my  arm  still  continuing  painful,  Sir  Wil- 
liam wrote  a  prescription ;  for  he  had  made  the  study  of 
physic  his  amusement,  and  was  more  than  moderately 
skilled  in  the  profession  :  this  being  sent  to  an  apothecat^ 
who  lived  in  the  place,  my  arm  was  dressed,  and  I  found 


HAPPIEK  PROSPECTS  BEGIN  TO  Afl'LAR.  459 

^rrost  instantaneous  relief.  We  were  waited  upon  ai 
dinner  by  the  jailer  himself,  who  was  willing  to  do  oui 
S^uest  all  the  honour  in  his  power;  but  before  we  had  tvel) 
dined,  another  message  was  brought  from  his  nephew,  de- 
siring permission  to  appear,  in  order  to  vindicate  his 
innocence  and  honour ;  with  which  request  the  baronet 
complied,  and  desired  Mr.  Thorahill  to  be  introduced 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

VORMEP   1TCKEVOLENCE  NOW  REPAID  WITH  UNEXPECTED  INTEREST 

HR.  THORNHILL  made  his  entrance  with  a 
smile,  which  he  seldom  wanted,  and  was  going 
to  embrace  his  uncle,  which  the  other  repulsed 
with  an  air  of  disdain.  "  No  fawning,  sir,  at 
present,"  cried  the  baronet,  with  a  look  of  severity  ;  "  the 
only  way  to  my  heart  is  by  the  road  of  honour ;  but  here 
I  only  see  complicated  instances  of  falsehood,  cowardice, 
and  oppression.  How  is  it,  sir,  that  this  poor  man,  for 
whom  I.  know  you  professed  friendship,  is  used  thus 
hardly  ?  His  daughter  vilely  seduced  as  a  recompense  for 
his  hospitality  ;  and  he  himself  thrown  into  prison,  perhaps 
but  for  resenting  the  insult  ?  His  son,  too,  whom  you 

leared  to  face  as  a  man " 

"  Is  it  possible,  sir,"  interrupted  his  nephew,  "  that  my 
uncle  should  object  that  as  a  crime,  which  his  repeated 
instructions  alone  have  persuaded  me  to  avoid  ?" 

"  Your  rebuke,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  is  just ;  you  have 
icted  in  this  instance  prudently  and  well,  though  not  quite 
as  your  father  would  have  done  ;  my  brother,  indeed,  was 


BENEVOLENCE  Jt£PAfD  WITH  INTERESl.  461 

the  soul  of  honour,  but  thou — yes,  you  have  acted  in  this 
instance  perfectly  right,  ana  it  has  my  warmest  approba- 
tion." 

"  And  I  hope,"  said  his  nephew,  "  that  the  rest  of  my 
conduct  will  not  be  found  to  deserve  censure.  I  appeared, 
sir,  with  this  gentleman's  daughter  at  some  places  of  public 
amusement ;  thus,  what  was  levity,  scandal  called  by  a 
harsher  name,  and  it  was  reported  that  I  had  debauched 
her.  I  waited  on  her  father  in  person,  willing  to  clear  the 
thing  to  his  satisfaction,  and  he  received  me  only  with 
insult  and  abuse.  As  for  the  rest,  with  regard  to  his  being 
here,  my  attorney  and  steward  can  best  inform  you,  as  I 
commit  the  management  of  business  entirely  to  them.  If 
he  has  contracted  debts,  and  is  unwilling  or  even  unable  to 
pay  them,  it  is  Iheir  business  to  proceed  in  this,  manner ; 
and  I  see  no  hardship  or  injustice  in  pursuing  the  most 
legal  means  of  redress." 

"  If  this,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  be  as  you  have  stated  it, 
there  is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your  offences ;  and 
though  your  conduct  might  have  been  more  generous,  in 
not  suffering  this  gentleman  to  be  oppressed  by  subordi- 
nate tyranny,  yet  it  has  been  at  least  equitable." 

"  He  cannot  contradict  a  single  particular,"  replied  the 
squire,  "  I  defy  him  to  do  so ;  and  several  of  my  servants 
are  ready  to  attest  what  I  say.  Thus,  sir,"  continued  he, 
finding  that  I  was  silent — for  in  fact  I  could  not  contradict 
him — "  thus,  sir,  my  own  innocence  is  vindicated ;  but 
though  at  your  entreaty  I  am  ready  to  forgive  this  gen- 
tleman every  other  offeace,  yet  his  attempts  to  lessen  me  in 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


your  esteem  excite  a  resentment  that  I  cannot  govern  ;  and 
this,  too,  at  a  time  when  his  son  was  actually  preparing  to 
take  away  my  life  —  this,  I  say,  was  such  guilt,  that  I  am 
determined  to  let  the  law  take  its  course.  I  have  here  the 
challenge  that  was  sent  me,  and  two  witnesses  to  prove  it 
one  of  my  servants  has  been  wounded  dangerously  ;  and 
even  though  my  uncle  himself  should  dissuade  me,  which  I 
know  he  will  not,  yet  I  will  see  public  justice  done,  and  he 
shall  suffer  for  it" 

"  Thou  monster  !  cried  my  wife,  "  hast  thou  not  had 
vengeance  enough  already,  but  must  my  poor  boy  feel  thy 
cruelty  ?  I  hope  that  good  Sir  William  will  protect  us,  for 
my  son  is  as  innocent  as  a  child  ;  I  am  sure  he  is,  and 
never  did  harm  to  man." 

"  Madam,"  replied  the  good  man,  "  your  wishes  for  his 
safety  are  not  greater  than  mine,  but  I  am  sorry  to  find  his 
guilt  too  plain  ;  and  if  my  nephew  persists  -  "  But  the 
appearance  of  Jenkinson  and  the  jailer's  two  servants  now 
called  off  our  attention,  who  entered  hauling  in  a  tall  man, 
very  genteelly  dressed,  and  answering  the  description 
already  given  of  the  ruffian  who  had  carried  off  my  daugh- 
ter. "Here,"  cried  Jenkinson,  pulling  him  in  —  "here  we 
have  him  ;  and  if  ever  there  was  a  candidate  for  Tyburn, 
this  is  one." 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  prisoner,  and 
Jenkinson,  who  had  him  in  custody,  he  seemed  to  shrink 
backward  with  terror.  His  face  became  pale  with  con- 
scious guilt,  and  he  would  have  withdrawn  ;  but  Jenkinson, 
•vho  perceived  his  design,  stopped  hiiu.  "  What,  Squire," 


BEXEVOLENCR  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  463 

cried  he,  "  are  you  ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquaintances, 
Jenkinson  and  Baxter  ?  But  this  is  the  way  all  great  men 
forget  their  friends ;  though  I  am  resolved  we  will  not  for- 
get you.  Our  prisoner,  please  your  honour,"  continued  he, 
turning  to  Sir  William,  "  has  already  confessed  all.  This 
is  the  gentleman  reported  to  be  dangerously  wounded  ;  he 
declares  that  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  first  put  him  upon 
the  affair  ;  that  he  gave  him  the  clothes  he  now  wears,  to 
appear  like  a  gentleman,  and  furnished  him  with  a  post- 
chaise.  The  plan  was  laid  between  them,  that  he  should 
carry  off  the  young  lady  to  a  place  of  safety,  and  that 
there  he  -should  threaten  and  terrify  her ;  but  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill  was  to  come  in,  in  the  meantime,  as  if  by  accident,  to 
her  rescue,  and  that  they  should  fight  awhile,  and  then  he 
was  to  run  off,  by  which  Mr.  Thornhill  would  have  the 
better  opportunity  of  gaining  her  affections  himself  under 
the  character  of  her  defender." 

Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been  fre- 
quently worn  by  his  nephew  ;  and  all  the  rest  the  prisoner 
himself  confirmed  by  a  more  circumstantial  account,  con- 
cluding, that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  often  declared  to  him  that 
he  was  in  love  with  both  sisters  at  the  same  time. 

"  Heavens !"  cried  Sir  William,  "  what  a  viper  have  I 
been  fostering  in  my  bosom !  And  so  fond  of  public 
justice,  too,  as  he  seemed  to  be !  But  he  shall  have  it ! 
Secure  him,  Mr.  Jailer.  Yet  hold  ;  I  fear  there  is  no  legal 
evidence  to  detain  him." 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  humility, 
entreated  that  two  such  abandoned  wretches  might  out  be 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


admitted  as  evidence  against  him  ;  but  that  his  servants 
should  be  examined.  "  Your  servants  ?"  replied  Sir 
William  ;  "  wretch,  call  them  yours  no  longer  :  but  come, 
let  us  hear  what  those  fellows  have  to  say  :  let  his  butler 
be  called." 

When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  perceived,  by 
his  former  master's  looks,  that  all  his  power  was  now  over. 
"  Tell  me,"  cried  Sir  William,  sternly,  "  have  you  ever  seen 
your  master,  and  that  fellow  dressed  up  in  his  clothes,  in 
company  together  ?"  —  "  Yes,  please  your  honour,"  cried  the 
butler,  "a  thousand  times;  he  was  the  man  that  always 
brought  him  his  ladies."  —  "  How  !"  interrupted  young  Mr. 
Thornhill  ;  "  this  to  my  face  ?"  —  "Yes,"  replied  the  butler, 
"or  to  any  man's  face.  To  tell  you  a  truth,  Master 
Thornhill,  I  never  either  loved  you  or  liked  you,  and  I 
don't  care  if  I  tell  you  now  a  piece  of  my  mind."  —  "  Now 
then,"  cried  Jenkinson,  tell  his  honour  whether  you  know 
anything  of  me."  —  "  I  can't  say,"  replied  the  butler,  "  that 
I  know  much  good  of  you.  The  night  that  gentleman's 
daughter  was  deluded  to  our  house,  you  was  one  of  them." 
—  "  So  then,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  I  find  you  have  brought 
a  very  fine  witness  to  prove  your  innocence  ;  thou  stain  to 
humanity  !  to  associate  with  such  wretches  !  But,"  con- 
tinuing his  examination  "you  tell  me,  Mr.  Butler,  that 
this  was  the  person  who  brought  him  this  old  gentleman's 
daughter."  —  "  No,  please  your  honour,"  replied  the  butler, 
"he  did  not  bring  her  —  for  the  squire  himself  undertook 
that  business  ;  but  he  brought  the  priest  that  pretended 
to  marry  them,"  —  "It  is  but  too  true."  cried  Jenkinson; 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  fNTEKESf.  465 


•*  I  cannot  deny  it :  that  was  the  employment  assigned  to 
me  ;  and  I  confess  it,  to  my  confusion." 

"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  the  worthy  baronet,  "  how 
every  new  discovery  of  his  villany  alarms  me !  All  his 
guilt  is  now  too  plain,  and  I  find  his  present  prosecution 
was  directed  by  tyranny,  cowardice,  and  revenge.  At  my 
request,  Mr.  Jailer,  set  this  young  officer,  now  your 
prisoner,  free,  and  trust  to  me  for  the  consequences, — I'll 
make  it  my  business  to  set  the  affair  in  a  proper  light  to 
my  friend  the  magistrate  who  has  committed  hrr.  But 
where  is  the  unfortunate  young  lady  herself  •.  let  her 
appear  to  confront  this  wretch  :  I  long  to  know  by  what 
arts  he  has  seduced  her.  Entreat  her  to  come  in  Where 
is  she  ?" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  question  stings  me  to  the 
heart ;  I  was  once  indeed  happy  in  a  daughter,  but  her 
miseries " 

Another  interruption  here  prevented  me,  for  who 
should  make  her  appearance  but  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot, 
who  was  the  next  to  have  been  married  to  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill.  Nothing  could  equal  her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir 
William  and  his  nephew  here  before  her,  for  her  arrival 
was  quite  accidental.  It  happened  that  she  and  the  old 
gentleman,  her  father,  were  passing  through  the  town  on 
their  way  to  her  aunt's,  who  had  insisted  that  her  nuptials 
with  Mr.  Thornhill  should  be  consummated  at  her  house  I 
but,  stopping  for  refreshment,  they  put  up  at  an  inn  at  *he 
other  end  of  the  town.  It  was  there,  from  the  window, 
that  the  young  lady  happened  to  observe  one  of  my  little 

30 


TttE  PICA*  OF  W At E FIELD, 


boys  playing  in  the  street ;  and  instantly  sending  a 
footman  to  bring  the  child  to  her,  she  learned  from  him 
some  account  of  our  misfortunes,  but  was  still  kept 
ignorant  of  young  Mr.  Thornhill's  being  the  cause 
Though  her  father  made  several  remonstrances  on  the 
impropriety  of  her  going  to  a  prison  to  visit  us,  yet  the} 
were  ineffectual :  she  desired  the  child  to  conduct  her, 
which  he  did  ;  and  it  was  thus  she  surprised  us  at  a  junc- 
ture so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I  go  on  without  a  reflection  on  those  accidental 
meetings,  which,  though  they  happen  every  day,  seldom 
excite  our  surprise  but  upon  some  extraordinary  occasion 
To  what  a  fortuitous  occurrence  do  we  not  owe  ever) 
pleasure  and  convenience  of  our  lives  !  How  many  seem- 
ing accidents  must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed  or  fed  ! 
The  peasant  must  be  disposed  to  labour,  the  shower  mus'. 
fall,  the  wind  fill  the  merchant's  sail,  or  numbers  must 
want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while  m> 
charming  pupil  —  which  was  the  name  I  generally  gave 
his  young  lady  —  united  in  her  looks  compassion  am! 
astonishment,  which  gave  new  finishing  to  her  beauty 
"  Indeed,  my  dear  Mr.  Thornhill,"  cried  she  to  the  squire, 
who  she  supposed  was  come  here  to  succour  and  not 
oppress  us,  "  I  take  it  a  little  unkindly  that  you  should 
come  here  without  me,  or  never  inform  me  of  the  situatior. 
of  a  family  so  dear  to  us  both.  You  know  I  should  take 
as  much  pleasure  in  contributing  to  the  relief  of  my 
reverend  old  master  here,  whoa  I  shall  ever  esteem,  as 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  4&» 

you  can  ;  but  I  find  that,  like  your  uncle,  you  take  & 
pleasure  in  doing  good  in  secret." 

"  He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good !"  cried  Sir  William, 
interrupting  her.  "  No,  my  dear,  his  pleasures  are  as  base 
as  he  is.  You  see  in  him,  madam,  as  complete  a  villain 
as  ever  disgraced  humanity:  a  wretch  who,  after  having 
deluded  this  poor  man's  daughter — after  plotting  against 
the  innocence  of  her  sister,  has  thrown  the  father  into 
prison  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters,  because  he  had  the 
courage  to  face  his  betrayer.  And  give  me  leave,  madam, 
now  to  congratulate  you  upon  an  escape  from  the  embraces 
of  such  a  monster." 

"  O  goodness  !"  cried  the  lovely  girl,  "  how  have  I  beer, 
deceived !  Mr.  Thornhill  informed  me  for  certain,  that 
this  gentleman's  eldest  son,  Captain  Primrose,  was  gone  ofl 
to  America  with  his  new-married  lady." 

"  My  sweetest  miss,"  cried  my  wife,  "  he  has  told  you 
nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George  never  left  the 
kingdom,  nor  ever  was  married  :  though  you  have  forsaken 
him,  he  has  always  loved  you  too  well  to  think  of  anybody 
else ;  and  I.  have  heard  him  say  he  would  die  a  bachelor 
for  your  sake."  She  then  proceeded  to  expatiate  upon 
the  sincerity  of  her  son's  passion  ;  she  set  his  duel  with 
Mr.  Thornhill  in  a  proper  light ;  from  thence  she  made  a 
rapid  digression  to  the  squire's  debaucheries,  his  pretended 
marriages,  and  ended  with  a  most  insulting  picture  of  his 
cowardice. 

"  Good  heavens  f"  cried  Miss  Wilmot,  "  how  very  near 
have  I  been  to  the  brink  of  ruin  1  but  how  great  is  my 


468  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEPIELD. 

pleasure  to  have  escaped  it !  Ten  thousand  falsehoods 
has  this  gentleman  told  me.  He  had  at  last  art  enough  to 
persuade  me  that  my  promise  to  the  only  man  I  esteemed 
was  no  longer  binding,  since  he  had  been  unfaithful.  By 
his  falsehoods  I  was  taught  to  detest  one  equally  brave  and 
generous." 

But  by  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  encum- 
brances of  justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to  be  wounded 
was  detected  to  be  an  impostor.  Mr.  Jenkinson  also,  who 
had  acted  as  his  valet-de-chambre,  had  dressed  up  his  hair, 
and  furnished  him  with  whatever  was  necessary  to  make  a 
genteel  appearance.  He  now,  therefore,  entered,  hand- 
somely dressed  in  his  regimentals ;  and  without  vanity  (for 
I  am  above  it),  he  appeared  as  handsome  a  fellow  as  ever 
wore  a  military  dress.  As  he  entered,  he  made  Miss 
Wilmot  a  modest  and  distant  bow,  for  he  was  not  as  yet 
acquainted  with  the  change  which  the  eloquence  of  his 
mother  had  wrought  in  his  favour.  But  no  decorums 
could  restrain  the  impatience  of  his  blushing  mistress  to  be 
forgiven  :  her  tears,  her  looks,  all  contributed  to  discover 
the  real  sensations  of  her  heart  for  having  forgotten  her 
former  promise,  and  having  suffered  herself  to  be  deluded 
by  an  impostor.  My  son  appeared  amazed  at  her  con- 
descension, and  could  scarce  believe  it  real.  "  Sure, 
madam,"  cried  he,  "  this  is  but  delusion  !  I  can  never  have 
merited  this !  To  be  blessed  thus  is  to  be  too  happy !" 
— "  No,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  I  have  been  deceived,  basely 
deceived  ;  else  nothing  could  have  ever  made  me  unjust  to 
my  promise.  You  know  my  friendship,  you  have  long 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  46? 

known  it ,  ^ut  forget  what  I  have  done,  and  as  you  once 
had  my  warmest  vows  of  constancy,  ycu  shall  now  have 
them  repeated  ;  and  be  assured  that  if  your  Arabella 
cannot  be  yours,  she  shall  never  be  another's." — "  And  no 
other's  you  shall  be,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  if  I  have  any 
influence  with  your  father." 

This  hint  was  sufficient  for  my  son  Moses,  who  imme- 
diately flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentleman  was,  to 
inform  him  of  every  circumstance  that  had  happened.  But 
in  the  meantime,  the  squire,  perceiving  that  he  was  on 
every  side  undone,  now  finding  that  no  hopes  were  left 
from  flattery  or  dissimulation,  concluded  that  his  wisest 
way  would  be  to  turn  and  face  his  pursuers.  Thus,  laying 
aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the  open  '  and  hardy 
villain. 

"  I  find,  then,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  am  to  expect  no  justice 
here ;  but  I  am  resolved  it  shall  be  done  me.  You  shall 
know,  sir,"  turning  to  Sir  William,  "  I  am  no  longer  a  poor 
dependant  upon  your  favours :  I  scorn  them.  Nothing 
can  keep  Miss  Wilmot's  fortune  from  me,  which,  I  thank 
her  father's  assiduity,  is  pretty  large.  The  articles,  and  a 
bond  of  her  fortune,  are  signed,  and  safe  in  my  possession. 
It  was  her  fortune,  not  her  person,  that  induced  me  to 
wish  for  this  match,  and  possessed  of  the  one,  let  who  will 
take  the  other." 

This  was  an  alarming  blow.  Sir  William  was  sensible 
of  the  justness  of  his  claims,  for  he  had  been  instrumental 
.n  drawing  up  the  marriage  articles  himself  Miss  Wilmot, 
thereiore,  perceiving  that  her  loiiuue  was  irretrievably  lost 


470  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD, 


turning  to  my  son,  asked  if  the  loss  of  fortune  could  lessen 
her  value  to  him.  "  Though  fortune,"  said  she,  "  is  out  of 
my  power,  at  least  I  have  my  hand  to  give." 

"  And  that,  madam,"  cried  the  real  lover,  "  was,  indeed, 
all  that  you  ever  had  to  give ;  at  least,  all  that  I  ever 
thought  worth  the  acceptance ;  and  I  now  protest,  my 
Arabella,  by  all  that's  happy,  your  want  of  fortune  this 
moment  increases  my  pleasure,  as  it  serves  to  convince  my 
sweet  girl  of  my  sincerity." 

Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a  little  pleased 
at  the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  escaped,  and  readily 
consented  to  a  dissolution  of  the  match  ;  but  finding  that 
her  fortune,  which  was  secured  to  Mr.  Thornhill  by  bond, 
would  not  be  given  up,  nothing  could  exceed  his  dis- 
appointment. He  now  saw  that  his  money  must  all  go  to 
enrich  one  who  had  no  fortune  of  his  own :  he  could  bear 
his  being  a  rascal,  but  to  want  an  equivalent  to  his 
daughter's  fortune  was  wormwood.  He  sat,  therefore,  for 
some  minutes,  employed  in  the  most  mortifying  specula- 
tions, till  Sir  William  attempted  to  lessen  his  anxiety.  "  I 
must  confess,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  that  your  present  disappoint- 
ment does  not  entirely  displease  me.  Your  immoderate 
passion  for  wealth  is  now  justly  punished.  But  though 
the  young  lady  cannot  be  rich,  she  has  still  a  sufficient 
competence  -to  give  content  Here  you  see  an  honest 
young  soldier,  who  is  willing  to  take  her  without  fortune. 
They  have  long  loved  each  other ;  and  for  the  friendship  I 
bear  his  father,  my  interest  shall  not  be  wanting  in  his 
promotion.  Leave,  then,  that  ambition  which  disappoints 


BENEVOLENCE  PAID  WITH  INTEREST.  471 

you,  and  for  once  admit  that  happiness  which  courts  your 
acceptance." 

"  Sir  William,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "  be  assured  1 
never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will  I  now.  If  she 
still  continues  to  love  this  young  gentleman,  let  her  have 
him,  with  all  my  heart.  There  is  still,  thank  Heaven,  some 
fortune  left,  and  your  promise  will  make  it  something 
more.  Only  let  my  old  friend  here,"  meaning  me,  "give 
me  a  promise  of  settling  six  thousand  pounds  upon  my 
girl  if  ever  he  should  come  to  his  fortune,  and  I  am  ready 
this  night  to  be  the  first  to  join  them  together."  As  it 
now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young  couple  happy,  I 
readily  gave  a  promise  of  making  the  settlement  he  re- 
quired ;  which  to  one  who  had  such  little  expectations  as 
I,  was  no  great  favour.  We  had  now,  therefore,  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  them  fly  into  each  other's  arms  in  a 
transport.  •  "  After  all  my  misfortunes,"  cried  my  son 
George,  "  to  be  thus  rewarded  !  Sure  this  is  more  than  I 
could  ever  have  presumed  £o  hope  for.  To  be  possessed  ol 
all  that's  good,  and  after  such  an  interval  of  pain !  my 
warmest  wishes  could  never  rise  so  high."  — "  Yes,  my 
George,"  returned  his  lovely  bride ;  "  now  let  the  wretch 
take  my  fortune  ;  since  you  are  happy  without  it,  so  am  I. 
Oh,  what  an  exchange  I  have  made,  from  the  basest  of 
men  to  the  dearest,  best !  Let  him  enjoy  our  fortune  ;  I 
now  can  be  happy  even  in  indigence." — "And  I  promise 
you,"  cried  the  squire,  with  a  malicious  grin,  "  that  I  shall 
be  very  happy  with  \yhat  you  despise." — "  Hold,  hold,  sir !" 
cried  Jenkinson ;  "  there  are  two  words  to  that  bargain 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 


As  for  that  lady's  fortune,  sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a 
single  stiver  of  it  Pray,  your  honour,"  continued  he  to 
Sir  William,  "  can  the  squire  have  this  lady's  fortune  if  he 
be  married  to  another  ?"  —  "  How  can  you  make  such  a 
simple  demand  ?"  replied  the  baronet  :  "  undoubtedly  he 
cannot."  —  "  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  cried  Jenkinson  ;  for  as 
this  gentleman  and  I  have  been  old  fellow-sporters,  I  have 
a  friendship  for  him  ;  but  I  must  declare,  well  as  I  love 
him,  that  his  contract  is  not  worth  a  tobacco-stopper,  for 
he  is  married  already."  —  "  You  lie  like  a  rascal,"  returned 
the  squire,  who  seemed  roused  by  this  insult  ;  "  I  never 
was  legally  married  to  any  woman."  —  "  Indeed,  begging 
your  honour's  pardon,"  replied  the  other,  "  you  were  ;  and 
I  hope  you  will  show  a  proper  return  of  friendship  to  your 
own  honest  Jenkinson,  who  brings  you  a  wife  ;  and  if  the 
company  restrain  their  curiosity  a  few  minutes  they  shall 
see  her."  So  saying,  he  went  off  with  his  usual  celerity, 
and  left  us  all  unable  to  form  any  probable  conjecture  as 
to  his  design.  "  Ay,  let  him  go,"  cried  the  squire  ;  "  what- 
ever else  I  may  have  done,  I  defy  him  there  :  I  am  too  old 
now  to  be  frightened  with  squibs." 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what  the  fellow  can 
intend  by  this  ;  some  low  piece  of  humour,  I  suppose."  — 
"  Perhaps,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  he  may  have  a  more  serious 
meaning  ;  for,  when  we  reflect  on  the  various  schemes  this 
gentleman  has  laid  to  seduce  innocence,  perhaps  some  one 
more  artful  than  the  rest  has  been  found  able  to  deceive 
him.  When  we  consider  what  numbers  he  has  ruined,  how 
many  parents  now  feel  with  anguish  the  infamy  and  the 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  473 

contamination  which  he  has  brought  into  their  families,  it 

would  not  surprise  me  if  some  of  them Amazement ! 

Do  I  see  my  lost  daughter  ?  Do  I  hold  her  ?  It  is,  my 
life,  my  happiness !  I  thought  thee  lost,  my  Olivia,  yet 
still  I  hold  thee,  and  still  thou  shalt  live  to  bless  me !" 

The  warmest  transports  of  the  fondest  lover  were  not 
greater  than  mine,  when  I  saw  him  introduce  my  child, 
and   held  my  daughter  in   my  arms,  whose  silence  only 
spoke  her  raptures.     "  And  art  thou  returned  to  me,  my 
darling,"  cried  I,  "  to  be  my  comfort  in  age  ?" — "  That  she 
is,"  cried  Jenkinson  ;  "  and  make  much  of  her,  for  she  is 
your  own  honourable  child,  and  as  honest  a  woman  as  any 
in  the  whole  room,  let  the  other  be  who  she  will : — and  as 
for  you,  squire,  as  sure  as  you  stand  there,  this  young  lady 
is  your  lawful  wedded  wife  ;  and  to  convince  you  that  I 
speak  nothing  but  the  truth,  here  is  the  licence  by  which 
you  were  married  together."     So  saying,  he  put  the  licence 
into  the  baronet's  hands,  who  read  it  and  found  it:  perfect 
in  every  respect. — "  And   now,  gentlemen,"  continued  he, 
"  I  find  you  are  surprised  at  all  this  ;  but  a  very  few  words 
will  explain  Lie  difficulty.     That  there  squire  of  renown,  for 
whom  I  have  a  great  friendship  (but  that's  between  our- 
selves), has  often  employed  me  in  doing  odd  little  things 
for  him.     Among  the  rest,  he  commissioned  me  to  procure 
him  a  false  licence  and  a  false  priest,  in  order  to  deceive 
this  young  lady  ;  but,  as  I  was  very  much  his  friend,  what 
did  I  do  but  went  and  got  a  true  licence  and  a  true  priest, 
and  married   them  both  as  fast  as  the  cloth  could  make 
them !     Perhaps  you'll  think  it  was  generosity  made  me  do 


474  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEF1ELD. 

all  this.  But  no ;  to  my  shame  I  confess  it,  my  only 
design  was  to  keep  the  licence,  and  let  the  squire  know 
that  I  could  prove  it  upon  him  whenever  I  thought  proper, 
and  so  make  him  come  down  whenever  I  wanted  money." 

A  burst  of  pleasure  now  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  apart- 
ment ;  our  joy  even  reached  the  common  room,  where  the 
prisoners  sympathized — 

"  And  shook  their  chains, 
In  transport  and  rude  harmony. " 

Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and  even 
Olivia's  cheeks  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure.  To  be 
thus  restored  to  reputation,  to  friends,  and  fortune  at 
once,  was  a  rapture  sufficient  to  stop  the  progress  of 
decay,  and  restore  former  health  and  vivacity.  But 
perhaps,  among  all,  there  was  not  one  who  felt  sincerer 
pleasure  than  I.  Still  holding  the  dear  loved  child  in 
my  arms,  I  asked  my  heart  if  these  transports  were  not 
delusion. 

"  How  could  you,"  cried  I,  turning  to  Jenkinson — 
"  how  could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the  story  of  her 
death  ?  But  it  matters  not ;  my  pleasure  at  finding  her 
again  is  more  than  a  recompence  for  the  pain." 

"  As  to  your  question,"  replied  Jenkinson,  "  that  is 
easily  answered.  I  thought  the  only  probable  means  of 
freeing  you  from  prison  was  by  submitting  to  the  squire, 
and  consenting  to  his  marriage  with  the  other  young 
lady  :  but  these  you  had  vowed  never  to  grant  while  your 
laughter  was  living ;  there  was,  therefore,  no  other 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  475 

method  to  bring  things  to  bear  but  by  persuading  you 
that  she  was  dead,  I  prevailed  on  your  wife  to  join  in  the 
deceit,  and  we  have  not  had  a  fit  opportunity  of  unde- 
ceiving you  till  now." 

In  the  whole  assembly  there  now  appeared  only  two 
faces  that  did  not  glow  with  transport  Mr.  Thornhill's 
assurance  had  entirely  forsaken  him  ;  he  now  saw  the  gulf 
of  infamy  and  want  before  him,  and  trembled  to  take  the 
plunge  :  he  therefore  fell  on  his  knees  before  his  uncle. 
and  in  a  voice  of  piercing  misery  implored  compassion. 
Sir  William  was  going  to  spurn  him  away,  but  at  my 
request  he  raised  him,  and  after  pausing  a  few  moments, 
"Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingratitude,"  cried  he,  "deserve 
no  tenderness ;  yet  thou  shalt  not  be  entirely  forsaken :  a 
bare  competence  shall  be  supplied  to  support  the  wants 
of  life,  but  not  its  follies.  This  young  lady,  thy  wffe,  shall 
be  put  in  possession  of  a  third  part  of  that  fortune  which 
once  was  thine ;  and  from  her  tenderness  alone  thou  art  to 
expect  any  extraordinary  supplies  for  the  future."  He 
was  going  to  express  his  gratitude  for  such  kindness  in  a 
set  speech ;  but  the  baronet  prevented  him  by  bidding  him 
not  aggravate  his  meanness,  which  was  already  but  too 
apparent.  He  ordered  him  at  the  same  time  to  be  gone. 
and  from  all  his  former  domestics  to  choose  one,  and  sucl; 
as  he  should  think  proper,  which  was  all  that  should  b« 
granted  to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us,  Sir  William  very  politely  stepped 
up  to  his  new  niece  with  a  smile,  and  wished  her  joy. 
His  example  was  followed  by  Miss  Wiirnot  and  hex 


476  THE  VICAR  Of  WAKEF1ELD. 

father;    my   wife,   too,   kissed   her   daughter    with   much 

affection  ;  as,  to  use  her  own  expression,  she  was  now  made 

an  honest  woman  oil     Sophia  and  Moses  followed  in  turn, 

and  even  our  benefactor  Jenkinson  desired  to  be  admitted 

to   that  honour.     Our   satisfaction  seemed  scarce  capable 

of  increase.     Sir   William,  whose   greatest    pleasure    was 

in   doing   good,   now   looked    round,  with  a  countenance 

open  as  the  sun,  and  saw  nothing  but  joy  on  the  looks  of 

ill,  except  that  of  my  daughter  Sophia,  who,  for  some 

reasons  we  could  not  comprehend,  did  not  seem  perfectly 

satisfied.     "  I  think  now,"  cried  he,  with  a  smile,  "  that  all 

the  company,  except  one  or  two,  seem  perfectly  happy. 

There  remains  only  an  act  of  justice  for  me  to  do.     You 

are  sensible,  sir,"  continued    he,  turning   to    me,  "of  the 

obligations  we  both  owe  to  Mr.  Jenkinson,  and  it  is  but 

just  we  should  both  reward  him  for  it     Miss  Sophia  will, 

I  am  sure,  make  him  very  happy,  and  he  shall  have  from 

me  five  hundred  pounds  as  her  fortune  ;    and    upon  this 

I  am  sure  they  can  live  very  comfortably  together.     Come, 
Miss  Sophia,  what  say  you  to  this  match  of  my  making  .' 
will  you  have  him  ?" 

My  poor  girl  seemed  almost  sinking  into  her  mother's 
arms  at  the  hideous  proposal.  "  Have  him,  sir  ?"  cried 
she,  faintly  ;  "  no,  sir,  never." — "  What !"  cried  he  again, 

II  not  Mr.  Jenkinson,  your  benefactor ;  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  with  five  hundred  pounds,  and  good  expectations  ?" 
— "  I  beg,  sir,"  returned  she,  scarce  able  to  speak,  "  thai 
vou'll  desist,  and   not  make  me  so  very  wretched." — " 
ever  such  obstinacy  known  ?"  cried  he  again,  "  to  refuse 


BENEVOLENCE  REPAID  WITH  INTEREST.  477 

man  whom  the  family  has  such  infinite  obligations  to, 
who  has  preserved  your  sister,  and  who  has  five  hundred 
pounds?  What,  not  have  him?"  — "No,  sir,  never," 
replied  she,  angrily ;  "  I'd  sooner  die  first."—"  If  that  be 
the  case,  then,"  cried  he,  "if  you  will  not  have  him  — I 
think  I  must  have  you  myself." 

And  so  saying,  he  caught  her  to  his  breast  with  ardour : 
"  My  loveliest,  my  most  sensible  of  girls,"  cried  he,  "  how 
could  you  ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could  deceive  you, 
or  that  Sir  William  Thornhill  could  ever  cease  to  admire  a 
mistress  that  loved  him  for  himself  alone?  I  have  for 
some  years  sought  for  a  woman  who,  a  stranger  to  my 
fortune,  could  think  I  had  merit  as  a  man.  After  having 
tried  in  vain,  even  among  the  pert  and  the  ugly,  how  great 
at  last  must  be  my  rapture  to  have  made  a  conquest  over 
such  sense  and  such  heavenly  beauty !"  Then  turning  to 
Jenkinson — "As  I  cannot,  sir,  part  with  this  young  lady 
myself  (for  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  the  cut  of  my  face), 
all  the  recompence  I  can  make  is,  to  give  you  her  fortune, 
and  you  may  call  upon  my  steward  to-morrow  for  five 
hundred  pounds." 

Thus  we  had  all  our  compliments  to  repeat,  and  Lady 
Thornhill  underwent  the  same  round  of  ceremony  that  her 
sister  had  done  before.  In  the  meantime,  Sir  William's 
gentlemen  appeared  to  tell  us  that  the  equipages  were 
ready  to  carry  us  to  the  inn,  where  everything  was  pre- 
pared for  our  reception.  My  wife  and  I  led  the  van,  and 
left  those  gloomy  mansions  of  sorrow  The  generous 
baronet  ordered  forty  pounds  to  be  distributed  among  the 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD, 


prisoners  ;  and  Mr.  Wilmot,  induced  by  his  example,  gave 
half  that  sum.  We  were  received  below  by  the  shouts  of 
the  villagers,  and  I  saw,  and  shook  by  the  hand  two  or 
three  of  my  honest  parishioners,  who  were  among  the 
number.  They  attended  us  to  our  inn,  where  a  sumptuous 
entertainment  was  provided,  and  coarser  provisions  distri- 
buted in  great  quantities  among  the  populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by  the  alter- 
nation of  pleasure  and  pain  which  they  had  sustained 
during  the  day,  I  asked  permission  to  withdraw  ;  and 
leaving  the  company  in  the  midst  of  their  mirth,  as  soon 
as  I  found  myself  alone,  I  poured  out  my  heart  in  grati- 
tude to  the  Giver  of  joy  as  well  as  sorrow,  and  then  slept 
undisturbed  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


THE  CONCLUSION. 

HE  next  morning,  as  soon  as  I  awaked,  I  found 
my  eldest  son  sitting  at  my  bedside,  who  came 
to  increase  my  joy  with  another  turn  of  fortune 
.  in  my  favour.  First  having  released  me  from 
the  settlement  that  I  had  made  the  day  before  in  his 
favour,  he  let  me  know  that  my  merchant,  who  had  failed 
in  town,  was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had  given  up 
effects  to  a  much  greater  amount  than  what  was  due  to  his 
creditors.  My  boy's  generosity  pleased  me  almost  as 
much  as  this  unlooked-for  good  fortune  ;  but  I  had  some 
doubts  whether  I  ought  in  justice  to  accept  his  offer. 
While  I  was  pondering  upon  this,  Sir  William  entered 
the  loom,  to  whom  I  communicated  my  doubts.  His 
opinion  was,  that,  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of  a 
very  affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I  might  accept  his 
offer  without  hesitation.  His  business,  however,  was  to 
inform  me  that,  as  he  had  the  night  before  sent  for  the 
licences,  and  expected  them  every  hour,  he  hoped  that  I 
would  not  refuse  my  assistance  in  making  all  the  company 
happy  that  morning. 


«8o  THE  VICAR  OP  WAFEFIEID. 


A  footman  entered  while  we  were  speaking,  to  tell  us 
that  the  messenger  was  returned ;  and  as  I  was  by  this 
time  ready,  I  went  down,  where  I  found  the  whole  company 
as  merry  as  affluence  and  innocence  could  make  them. 
However,  as  they  were  now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn 
ceremony,  their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I  told 
them  of  the  grave,  becoming,  and  sublime  deportment  they 
should  assume  upon  this  mystical  occasion,  and  read  them 
two  homilies  and  a  thesis  of  my  own  composing,  in  order 
to  prepare  them  ;  yet  they  still  seemed  perfectly  refractory 
and  ungovernable.  Even  as  we  were  going  along  to  church, 
to  which  I  led  the  way,  all  gravity  had  quite  forsaken  them, 
and  I  was  often  tempted  to  turn  back  in  indignation. 

In  church  a  new  dilemma  arose,  which  promised  no  eas\ 
solution  :  this  was,  which  couple  should  be  married  first  : 
my  son's  bride  warmly  insisted  that  Lady  Thornhill  (that 
was  to  be)  should  take  the  lead  ;  but  this  the  other  refused 
with  equal  ardour,  protesting  she  would  not  be  guilty  of 
such  rudeness  for  the  world.  The  argument  was  supported 
for  some  time  between  both  with  equal  obstinacy  and  good 
breeding ;  but,  as  I  stood  all  this  time  with  my  book  read) 
I  was  at  last  quite  tired  of  the  contest,  and  shutting  it,  "  I 
perceive,"  cried  I,  "  that  none  of  you  have  a  mind  to  bi 
married,  and  I  think  we  had  as  good  go  back  again  ;  for  1 
suppose  there  will  be  no  business  done  here  to-day."  This 
at  once  reduced  them  to  reason :  the  baronet  and  his  lady- 
were  first  married,  and  then  my  son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

1  had  previously  that  morning  given  orders  that  a  coacl 
should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbour  Flamborou^h  and 


TffB  CONCLUSION. 


his  family ;  by  which  means,  upon  our  return  to  the  inn, 
we  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs, 
alighted  before  us.  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave  his  hand  to  the 
eldest,  and  my  son  Moses  led  up  the  other ;  and  I  have 
since  found  that  he  has  taken  a  real  liking  to  the  girl,  and 
my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall  have  whenever  he  thinks 
proper  to  demand  them.  We  were  no  sooner  returned  to 
the  inn  than  numbers  of  my  parishioners,  hearing  of  my 
success,  came  to  congratulate  me ;  but  among  the  rest  were 
those  who  rose  to  rescue  me,  and  whom  I  formerly  rebuked 
with  such  sharpness.  I  told  the  story  to  Sir  William,  my 
son-in-law,  who  went  out  and  reproved  them  with  great 
severity;  but  finding  them  quite  disheartened  by  this 
harsh  reproof,  he  gave  them  half  a  guinea  apiece  to  drink 
his  health,  and  raise  their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very  genteel  enter- 
tainment, which  was  dressed  by  Mr.  Thornhill's  cook.  And 
it  may  not  be  improper  to  observe,  with  respect  to  that 
gentleman,  that  he  now  resides  in  quality  of  companion  at 
a  relation's  house,  being  very  well  liked,  and  seldom  sitting 
at  the  side-table,  except  when  there  is  no  room  at  the 
other,  for  they  make  no  stranger  of  him  :  his  time  is  pretty 
much  taken  up  in  keeping  his  relation — who  is  a  little 
melancholy — in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to  blow  the  French 
horn.  My  eldest  daughter,  however,  still  remembers  him  with 
regret ;  and  she  has  told  me,  though  I  make  a  great  secret 
of  it,  that  when  he  reforms,  she  may  be  brought  to  relent. 

But  to  return,  for  I  am  not  apt  to  digress  thus  :  when 
we  were  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  our  ceremonies  were  going 

3' 


4*»  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


to  be  renewed.  The  question  was  whether  my  eldest 
daughter,  as  being  a  matron,  should  not  sit  above  '.he  two 
young  brides ;  but  the  debate  was  cut  short  by  my  son 
George,  who  proposed  that  the  company  should  sit  indis- 
criminately, every  gentleman  by  his  lady.  This  was  re- 
ceived with  great  approbation  by  all  excepting  my  wife, 
who  I  could  perceive  was  not  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she 
expected  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  and  carving  the  meat  for  all  the  company. 
But,  notwithstanding  this,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  our 
good  humour.  I  can't  say  whether  we  had  more  wit 
among  us  now  than  usual,  but  I  am  certain  we  had  more 
laughing,  which  answered  the  end  as  well. 

One  jest  I  particularly  remember:  old  Mr.  Wilmot, 
drinking  to  Moses,  whose  head  was  turned  another  way, 
my  son  replied,  "  Madam,  I  thank  you  :"  upon  which  the 
old  gentleman,  winking  upon  the  rest  of  the  company, 
observed  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  mistress ;  at  which 
jest  I  thought  the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  would  have 
died  with  laughing.  As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  accord- 
ing to  my  old  custom,  I  requested  that  the  table  might  be 
taken  away,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  my  family 
assembled  once  more  by  a  cheerful  fireside.  My  two  little 
ones  sat  upon  each  knee ;  the  rest  of  the  company  by  their 
partners.  I  had  nothing  now  on  this  side  the  grave  to  wish 
for:  all  my  cares  were  over;  my  pleasure  was  unspeak- 
able :  it  now  only  remained  that  my  gratitude  in  good  for- 
tune should  exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity. 

THE  END. 


rcc   j.9  iggy 


